Dragonslayer
by T0PH4T
Summary: A short story written in response to receiving fanart. Set about five years after the end of Collagen. Now includes how it ends.
1. Chapter 1

"That's not how it happened," I say, shaking my head and taking a sip of wine. "I don't know _where_ you're getting these ideas or why you decided to make it sound like a hostage situation, but I _assure_ you that-"

"Oh shut up!" Maudlin says, smiling with every single one of his needle-point teeth and waving me off. "Listen, if yer not gonna tell the stories right, _someone's_ gotta. Since I'm yer date, figure that responsibility falls to me, right? Right. So why dontcha wander off, talk with someone a little less furry, drink a few too many, and have a nice night with them?"

Any other being that addressed me like that would receive a _flaying_ at the very least. Instead I throw back my head and laugh, luxuriating in the fact that I have a friend close enough to insult me. My amusement doesn't get more than a quirked eyebrow from most of the overdressed upper-crusters around us, but a few of the more anxious ones jump, bringing my score up to seven for the night. Is it cruel to prey on the nerves of wealthy has-beens with no idea what they're getting into? Maybe, but I need to entertain myself at these galas _somehow_ , and after the first parahuman party crasher lost a hand they've been quiet as a grave ever since.

When I'm done expressing my mirth, I shake my head and spread my arms at the small circle of people, smiling under my mask and forming an inoffensive grin on top of it.

"Well then, I'll leave you all to it. Remember," I point to Maudlin and meet his eyes, "We're gone by nine even if I have to drag you out by force." Maudlin cackles, shaking his purple mane and giving me a thumbs up, the black pad on the end of the digit standing out against the pale lavender.

"Gotcha boss-girl." I start walking away from the group as the Case-53 raises his voice and further butchers a story about one of my fights with the Teeth.

The first time Maudlin told me that he was a people person, I took one look at his toothy maw and politely suppressed my disbelief. Then he sat down at a table with three capes who all hated each other, talked to them for four hours, and got my shop and the three surrounding blocks declared a neutral zone. After that, I offered him a hundred thousand dollars a year and my aegis of protection to work for me. My pieces sell out maybe a week after I make them now, with a sizable increase in price and dramatically fewer complaints from the customers.

After weaving between groups and nodding politely to some of the more important guests, I step out of the main hall and heave a sigh of relief behind my mask. I hate these social events with a _passion_ , but making art also means showing up to exhibits and art shows. Networking is as much a part of the process as creation, and at the end of the day I do have to show up, even if all that means is drinking four glasses of overpriced liquor and harassing the other guests for the entire night.

I shake my head and turn into another wing to get away from everyone else. I've gotten better at playing the game, but that doesn't mean I like it.

I leave the main party behind and wander among the different wings. The gala is being thrown in honor of a number of different parahuman artists, one of which is me. That's all well and good, and if Maudlin doesn't come away with three new commissions I'll eat my mask, but on the other hand there's a more interesting collection of art _inspired_ by parahumans in the museum proper, and that I actually do want to see. After consulting a map and a few more minutes of walking, I find the exhibit. It doesn't disappoint.

Scion's a popular subject. Naked or in his traditional white bodysuit, moments of stillness or simple golden blurs rendered in oil, I count at least a dozen with him as the sole focus. Maybe more impressively, they're all positive. Not one shows Scion helping a cat out of a tree while Leviathan sinks Kyushu, or stopping to fix a twisted ankle while a magnitude 7.4 earthquake destroys the city just behind him. No one wants to tear down the only hero that does unambiguous good.

Not so with the art depicting the Protectorate. Heroes are shown at their highest, yes, (a stained-glass window of Chevalier receiving an honorary-if-fictional knighting being the standout piece), but also when they fail. There's a larger-than-life full color photo of someone in Valiant's gold astronaut costume at the witness stand, with the names of his victims overlaid in black. He was one of the few truly black sheep among the heroes, and ever since they've become even more careful about recruiting Strangers. A short film showing a number of accidental casualties, from Blaster projectiles that weren't properly aimed to hostage situations gone wrong. All censored, but no less powerful for it. A constant reminder that mistakes happen, and that sometimes they're preventable.

And then I see the sculpture.

A biped dragon cast in metal, with a flickering red-orange light positively erupting from the rents in it's scales. Another figure, a woman in some sort of armor, is clutched in its hand, forcing an arm down the beast's throat. Spikes emerge from the nostrils and eyes of the dragon, and the monster's tail is curled in anger, free hand clawing at the air.

The plaque reads 'Dragonslayer.'

"Cool, innit?" I spin around to see a small someone behind me. They've got a hoodie up, with a strange face that's curiously devoid of masculine or feminine traits. "I mean, I've worked on some stuff before for other heroes but it's always been a little weird trying to hit the balance between getting it juuust right and doing my own thing, ya'know?" They step past me, looking up at the dragon with a smile on their face. "I liked how you started doing art as well as all the normal superhero stuff and figured 'hey, why not give something back?' So, I looked into your past and started feeling around for ideas. I didn't want to do anything at an Endbringer fight 'cause those are way to big for one cape, but then I found an old newspaper clipping and boom!" They put both hands to the side of their head, then throw them wide and spread their fingers. "Inspiration. Easy to get the stuff when your subject's interesting." After a moment their arms drop to their sides and they hunch their shoulders. "Aaand I just admitted to low-key stalking you. Uh, sorry about that."

I take a breath, then let it out. "Poor phrasing," I say slowly, "but I doubt there was any malice behind it."

An awkward silence descends. I go back to looking at the sculpture.

"The dragon is a little odd," I say. No wings for one, and I don't recall Lung having a tail.

"Yeah, trying to find accurate reports about Lung is a bit like trying to determine the existence of Bigfoot," the artist says, shrugging one shoulder. "I got some of the basics down and went from there. Didn't know that his face was all funky until I was, like, 90% done with the build, so the slit in his mouth" — they point to a small gap in the lower jaw and a groove in the palate — "got added in at the last minute. Also, since you switch out masks basically at random and no one has any footage of the fight between the two of you I decided to go with a minimalist version. I sketched out, like, _nine_ other versions but none of them really screamed 'what the fuck?' like this one."

"'What the fuck?'" I say, the celtic knots on my face shifting up as I look down at the smaller person. I can't quite figure them out, but so far they don't seem hostile or pushy. The artist nods and returns my gaze undaunted.

"Yeah. I mean, it was your first night out, right? New cape on the scene and BAM! Dragon-pimp-gangster to the face. I mean, maybe you _were_ a stone-cold badass even then but..." their eyes drift away, returning to the mask of the woman. "It didn't feel right."

I turn back to the sculpture and appraise the mask. At first glance it looks robotic. Flat. The lack of detail makes it look almost unfinished, and I turn to comment on it before pausing. The person is staring at the piece, eyes far more serious than when they were talking to me. I follow their gaze to the dragon, where I can make out minute scales in the less-illuminated sections. Clearly the artist has the talent to do small touches.

So why leave the mask blank?

I look a little more closely.

The lower lids are slightly convex. A wince, maybe a grimace? Something that speaks of pain and pushing through it. I drop my focus to the other hand, the one clutching at the dragon's claws, trying to force them away. To her knees and feet, complete with the little barbs that still sometimes come out when I really lose sight of myself. Then back to the mask, where I can see flickering shadows creating the illusion of eyebrows drawn together, in focus or in agony.

It's not a perfect rendition of that night. It's not an accurate one either. It might be more honest though.

"I like it," I say quietly. I hear a snort of amusement and once again turn to look down at the person beside me. They've got a good-natured smirk on their face and their hands laced behind their head.

"'Course you do. Everyone loves stuff that's about them. Even if you've got more reason to be proud than most." I roll my eyes and gesture to a water color depiction of a cape destroying the top half of a building.

"Think Shine appreciates being known for knocking over apartment buildings?" Criticism and satire tend to go over poorly with the particular types of crazy that your average parahuman is. The person shrugs nonchalantly in response, turning around and walking back towards the main hall. I follow.

"No publicity is bad publicity, right? And most of the art in there that's not-so-nice is about people who got 'caged or killed, so they're not really a problem." We start going up stairs, back towards the party, and I slow my pace to match theirs. "I also don't think too many people are worried about capes going after them for making art. I mean, I know I've done stuff for a _lot_ of crazy, _crazy_ capes, and one time some of it came out a little more," — they fumble with their hands for a minute before giving up and making an ambiguous gesture — " _hot_ than I initially intended." Oh. I stop walking at stare at the artist. They keep moving though. "Turned out alright in the end," they add, seemingly unaware of my shock. "I did some other stuff for them that was a little more safe for work and they stopped threatening to put my head on a pike almost immediately."

"Who did you draw? And _what_ did you draw?" I ask. Capes tend to range from 'totally apathetic' to 'murderously possessive' when it comes to their personal images. Off the top of my head, I can think of half a dozen parahumans who'd respond to risque art with violence and bloody murder.

"Mairon in a sexy Santa outfit, why?" they say, turning around and tilting their head, looking down at me. I go still.

"Mairon," I say quietly, looking at the apparently insane artist in front of me. "You made fetish art of the Ringmaker." Mairon, one of the top five Trumps in the world, leader of a team of capes that have yet to suffer a serious defeat. A cape that has personally killed at least half a dozen similarly scary parahumans in one-on-one combat and done so without remorse.

"It wasn't fetish art!" the artist denies, crossing their arms and glaring at me. "Just a low neckline and little bit of thigh!" I continue to stare at them. Then I think about the other artists I know.

Jeremy is absurdly frugal. He has enough money to buy anything he wants, but still lives in the cheapest apartment in the safest environment, eats two meals of the cheapest produce he can find when he can't find something in a dumpster, and drives his spray paint to the workshop in a Toyota Corolla that he maintains using stuff from scrap yards and duct tape. Kasansa carries three knives in plain view everywhere she goes and regularly tries to invite me to fight clubs when she comes over to do flower arrangements. Not because she wants me in the ring, but because she wants me to give her advice on how to battle capes.

Now that I think about it, the people running the store aren't much better. Alex and Alice swap clothes all the time to confuse everyone, Callie manages to communicate almost entirely in rhyme, and Tiffany is a six three war vet missing an eye and three fingers who knits on break.

Do I actually have anyone on my payroll that _isn't_ a little crazy?

"Anyway, I've got another thing in the works for you," the artist says, turning back around and walking back towards the main hall. After a moment, I follow them. "It'll be a solo sculpture this time. No idea what the mask is going to look like, but I was wondering if you could help me figure that out over a couple of drinks? My name's Felix, by the way," they add, pointing to themselves. "Not my real name, but I learned that lesson a while ago. Anyway, I think the bar's that way. What say we get some alcoholic beverages and sex out I MEAN SKETCH OUT some ideas?" Felix waves their hands across the front of their body, androgynous eyes slightly dilated and cheeks impressively unflushed. I give them a brief once over. Below the hoodie they've got some nice muscular legs in hotpants, and I can't say that I mind the middle ground their face strikes between-

Wait.

I run through Amy's list of Common Signs of Flirtation. Attention to personal history? Check. Empathy and complimentary language? Check. Freudian slips?

In the back of my head I hear Amy's laugh. I've gone and misread the signals again, haven't I?

"Are you hitting on me?" I ask. This time I'm the one receiving a flat gaze.

"I mean, kinda?" Felix says, holding up both hands helplessly as we enter the main room, angling for the bar. It's a little less crowded now that some of the guests have departed for the night. "It's more like I want to do a model of you and it's hard to ask someone to strip down and let you paint them like a French girl if you're not either Leonardo DiCaprio or fairly drunk. Hey, can I get two rum and coconut coffees?"

"Naked," I repeat flatly, walking up next to them. One of the bartenders recognizes me and promptly starts mixing together an Old Fashioned. Plain, yes, but I've gotten used to them and I don't want to bother learning the subtleties of a new drink. Felix shakes their head as another bartender pushes a tall glass filled with some brown amalgamation towards them.

"I mean, do you actually wear anything under that?" they ask, motioning up and down at me. I can practically _feel_ the sudden spike of interest from the surrounding guests, even if Felix doesn't seem to care. _Watch yourself, artist_. "Anyway, I'm not asking for a ton of skin or anything, but like, half plate maybe. Show the difference between battle mode and relaxation. I'll try to find an old bathtub, warm it up, get you nice and relaxed, then have you slowly shed plates."

"That sounds suspiciously like a date," I say, taking a sip and bracing myself against the sting even as Felix quaffs their beverage. "Also, I'm not naked under this." After getting hit the stomach by a rifle powerful enough to blow through my armor, I invested in a bullet resistant bodysuit. Sure it's a pain to squeeze into in the mornings, but it's better than trying to recover from getting shot by illegally-powerful guns.

"Well there goes my fantasy," Felix says and I nearly choke. _What_? "On the other hand, that wasn't a no. Who do I talk to in order to get a proper date?" They smile innocently, far too innocently for the image that just entered my mind, all pale legs and mischievous grins.

"That would be me," Maudlin says. Further contemplation is cut off as an arm appears around my shoulders and the purple-furred canine crossbreed interjects himself into the conversation. "I heard you hitting on my client?"

"Employer," I snap back automatically. "And they were wondering if I wanted to model for them."

"She's free Sunday afternoon," Maudlin says, grabbing the second of Felix's drinks and sniffing it twice, snout crinkling momentarily. "Rum, coconut, brown sugar, and coffee, right?"

"Yup! This ones a little weak though," Felix says, tapping the side of the glass and swallowing down the rest of it. "I'll have to ask them to up the rum next time."

"Don't I get a say in this?" I ask, shaking my head and downing more of my drink. I mean, now that I know it's not straight-up nude this actually sounds kind of interesting. If the sculpture is anything to go by, Felix clearly knows what they're doing, and I'm not getting any sketchy feelings from the short interaction I've had with them.

"You can say yes," Maudlin says, lapping at the top of the rum and coconut drink before lifting it up. "To business?"

"To art," I correct, lifting what remains of my own drink and making eye contact with Felix. They smile back and lift a newly-refilled glass.

"To art," they respond, and our three glasses gently clink together.


	2. Chapter 2

"Ready?" Felix asks, fiddling with their camera.

"Give me a minute to get comfortable," I answer, walking over to the old steel washtub. I honestly never quite expected the photoshoot to actually happen, but Maudlin came through and Felix was willing to reschedule whatever else they were planning on doing. I'd be lying if I wasn't also a little nervous, but...

I take a breath and turn around, then slowly lower myself into the tub. I can feel the near-boiling water through the bone, a nearly-unpleasant-but-also-welcome sensation, and my muscles slowly relax as the heat seeps into them. A pair of mint-scented candles lie lit next to an open box of chocolates, all on top of a three-legged stool within arm's reach of the tub. For all intents and purposes, it's just a night of relaxation.

In someone else's home.

With a camera.

I let out a long breath and start loosening the plates that make up my costume. Not gone, not falling off, just thinning the connections between them. I generally don't go skyclad under bone when I'm out in costume, for safety if for no other reason. When I'm not in costume, I try not to armor up. It makes it easier to keep Taylor and White Rose separate.

I sigh.

This is weird.

"Do you want music?" I blink and look at Felix, who quickly turns away to fiddle with a light stand. "I mean, it feels like this is your first time modeling and I'm trying to get you to relax. I know that whenever I run into situations that freak me out I plug in some earbuds, check out for a bit, and just like that" — they snap their fingers — "things are a little easier."

"Sure," I say, rolling my shoulders, draping my arms over the edge of the tub, and dropping my head back to look up at the ceiling. Soon enough, a song starts floating through the room. I still don't feel... whatever it is I'm supposed to be feeling. I think.

Ugh. I reach for a piece of chocolate and bite down on it. Coconut. I swallow it down. Double ugh.

New plan.

I close my eyes and start _feeling_ with my shell. No shaping, not yet. I let my mind wander aimlessly, not really trying to think about anything or do anything. I'm just existing in place, fading _back_ in a way I can't quite explain, re-imagining myself as a combination of organs and bone. I become _aware_ of myself in a way that's deeper than a position in space, or an emotional balance, or any mixture of the two. I get a sense of connection and disconnection, of being in tune with something so much larger than myself but also comfortably removed from it all.

It's there that I remember I was here for a reason. To show off. To display myself.

So I do.

At first it's small things, petals peeling off me into the warm water. When those sink I blow into the bone, making it light as gossamer, forming lotus blossoms to float on the water, delicate structures that lie still on the surface. My legs work their way up and out, water gently dripping from them as more bone disconnects. Waste not want not. I let the material spider out into vines, lightly thorned, crawling up the side of the tub even as more bone falls away from me.

An indistinct noise starts up, stimulus meant for the relaxed, not-bone parts of myself. It doesn't sound worried though, so I push the concern to the back of my mind and ease back into my power.

More bone falls off me, floating in the water next to the lilies as the gentle blaze of heat folds deep into my flesh. I leave those plates intact, something telling me that a visual reminder of the beginning of this session might be useful. Then I yawn, more bone peeling back and up to let my jaw stretch as a pleasant sense of peace falls over me. I snag a chocolate and nibble on it. Bitter and dark. Perfect.

A quiet clicking flits around me, accompanied by more of the indistinct noise and noise-patterns. I think about quieting it, then decide not to. Chocolate is better. Mmm, raspberry.

Only a few pieces of bone are left. One over the left side of my chest, something partially on and partially off my right foot, a few pieces in my right hand that I idly play with, and far too many on my face. Irritating. I tell the section over my mouth to crawl off, sliding it up and over my head, undoing the braid and bun that holds back my hair and combing through it with a fineness that no brush has ever come close to. A thought occurs, and I have it bring the hair forward. All three feet of it.

It's dangerous for a cape to have long hair. Very dangerous. Beyond the potential handle it could give opponents during a fight, any number of Thinkers or Tinkers could use lost strands to track me down. If I were more practical, I'd have it cut down to size. If I kept more vulnerable company, perhaps I would as well.

Instead I pull my tresses into the water and start soaking them, slowly rinsing them through and melting into a puddle of contentment. I bring my hands back into the water to work the black strands, humming as more clicking, inoffensive noise, and noise-patterns exist around me.

"Uh, you okay White Rose?"

I come back from the light doze slowly, registering my senses one at a time. Felix has the lights turned down low, the orange glow gently illuminating their face telling me most of the day is gone. The pattern-noise (music, it must have been) is gone, along with the clicking (a camera, surely). I still taste chocolate, along with half a dozen other flavors too indistinct to identify. The mint in the air has been replaced by something else, still plant-like but different. Pine, maybe.

I also feel the now-cold water pruning my skin, the lankness of my hair, and the breeze across my upper chest as I realize _just how much skin I have exposed_.

"Well this is awkward," I say, marshaling my composure as I re-form my armor and stand up. Water spills out of the tub and the bone flowers start rocking at the change in water levels. "So, I didn't plan for things to go this far and-"

"You want to have veto power over whatever I decide to keep," Felix says, nodding along and apparently unconcerned with me accidentally flashing them. "Yeah, I kinda picked up on you not being entirely there when I asked you if this was supposed to be some sort of elaborate strip-tease and you replied by forming a spike in my direction, then using it to grab more chocolate." I stare at them as they press some buttons on their camera, then hold it in front of me. "Anyway, I work with nude models all the time. It's not weird."

"Do you have _any_ sense of self-preservation?" I ask, glancing at the photo. It's in grey scale, with lots of white-on-white. They press a button and it switches to full color and I see just how flushed the heat of the water made me. Oh _my_.

"Yeah, but I've got a pretty good head for stuff like this. Also, this wasn't even close to my most dangerous experience with a cape," they say, flicking through the camera roll to some of the earlier shots, the ones where the armor is slowly coming off. The variety of angles is a little confusing, but I can already see a story in them. "I mean, there was this one girl with a crazy precog power and massive self-esteem issues that threatened to have someone named 'Mr. Jeeves' beat me into a coma after I gave her a hug, but after I agreed to shut up her head shot actually came out really nice, and the portrait wasn't too bad either." I shake my head and lean back.

"So, is that it?" I ask hesitantly. It really didn't feel like I did much, and even if I'm still a little _off_ from letting down my guard that much it's hard to stay keyed up when the only other person in the room is 100% unconcerned. "Can I go now?" Felix looks up with a questioning look on their face.

"I mean, yeah, but don't you want a copy of the pictures and stuff?" they ask, jerking a thumb towards a computer tower and monitor. "Like, I'll go through this stuff over the course of the next few days and pick out the best shots, edit the video" — they point to a series of cameras set up on tripods around the tub — "and just generally curate the heck out of this, but this stuff is still pretty cool, and it's as much your creation as mine." I open my mouth to say no, pause, then nod with more confidence than I feel.

"Do you have hard storage?" I ask, more than a little nervous and irritated that I am. I can go to Endbringer fights on the regular, battle any and every parahuman in Boston without batting an eye, but some risque photography unsettles me?

I sigh. Keeping a consistent set of standards is hard.

"Yup, I'll have it ready in a few minutes," they say, dropping into a swivel chair and clicking through some programs I don't recognize. "You can change back into whatever now," they add. "I can handle the rest from here."

Without further comment I gratefully head to the guest bathroom where I left my clothes to once more become Taylor.

"So how'd it go?" Amy asks from the couch as soon as I get back to the apartment Vicky and I share. Strictly speaking, the hour is late enough that Amy should be at the Dallon residence. Realistically, with Vicky attending college and Mark doing a lot better there isn't really a reason for Amy to hang around Carol for an extended period of time if neither of them have to. As a result, Amy basically lives here, to the relief of everyone involved

"It went fine," I say, dropping my motorcycle keys to join the ones for the car in the cup by the door. "Kinda zoned out part way through it but Felix says it turned out alright anyway." Multiple vehicles is an extravagance that I choose to indulge in, officially so Vicky has some less-obvious ways of getting around town. Unofficially, Vicky wouldn't be caught dead driving anywhere she could fly, so the result is that I get to choose between vehicles.

"Details," Amy whines, tossing her book to the side and turning around to look at me as I walk into the kitchen. "You can't just say 'oh, I was a model for a day' and leave it at that!" I toss the flash drive across the room, drawing a surprised squawk as it hits her in the face and falls into her lap. I smirk.

"That's the sum total of the day," I say, pulling out pasta and fixings for a sauce. "If you want to work your way through a few thousand photos you're more than welcome to." Felix told me that maybe twenty to fifty percent of them would be good enough to bother printing out, and that the recording would need some special attention before it would turn into something that they would want to show, but six hours is a _lot_ of material. I don't anticipate being disappointed.

Now, to spice or not to spice, that is the question.

Amy grumbles something unintelligible from the living room and I hear the padding of her feet as she walks to the office room where all the computers are kept. I banish thoughts of her as I go through the motions of putting together dinner, humming in contentment as I cook. Boil noodles, dice the pork, saute onions, garlic, and some peppers (not hot ones this time), and finish the whole thing with pepper, basil, salt, and a can of tomato sauce.

Easy.

Once the food is done I text Vicky, asking when she'll be back. A few minutes later she replies. Tomorrow night. She's with Dean, then. I sigh and set the table for two. It's great that she has a boyfriend. Really. I just wish she was a little better at telling people when she was going to be out. Now I have three people's worth of food and two people to eat it.

Eh, Amy's a pig. I add a few more scoops to her plate. There. Problem solved.

"Food!" I shout, sitting down at the small four-person table and beginning to eat. Poor manners, but the Dallon sisters don't stand on ceremony. I hear some muffled cursing and a slammed door, then hurried footsteps as Amy walks into the room, a slight blush on her face. I point to her plate. "Don't worry, it's not spicy."

For a bit, there's nothing but quiet and the sound of people eating.

"You didn't tell me you were naked," Amy mutters. I look up. Is the unflappable Isidis flustered? The woman who regularly ends up elbow-deep in corpses and near-corpses is rendered speechless by a little bit of skin?

"Is it that big of a deal?" I ask around a mouthful of food, pushing down a smile. "I mean, you're naked around me all the time-"

"I need to be naked around you all the time," she interrupts, pointing at me with her free hand. "My power literally functions better if I am. You don't need to be naked at all, and seeing you slowly, uh..." she trails off, kind of staring in my direction but also clearly trying to _not_ look at me.

"Amy?" I prompt as innocently as I can. Finally. Some _vengeance_. Amy sort of jumps in place, then scowls.

"It's weird," she finishes, shoving pasta into her mouth. " _My_ schtuck," she adds with her mouth full and looking at me meaningfully.

I don't laugh. Laughing means I lose points. Instead I take another bite of food, table manners nearly perfect.

"Is there anything you liked in the video?" I ask, looking at her expectantly. Amy nearly chokes and I make a mental note to buy Felix something nice and expensive. "Anything you want to try?"

"The flowers," Amy blurts out, trying to stay fixated on her food. "You made floating bone. How?" I think back to the idea of _blowing_ into the bone. How did I do that?

"Give me a second," I say, pushing my empty bowl to the side and holding out my hand, staring intently at the palm. I form a lotus blossom, easy as breathing, then try to _blow_ into it again. It expands rapidly, so I shunt the excess material into additional blooms. Where there was one, there are now four, all thin and near-weightless and practically _glowing_ in the light. I sever my connections to them as quietly as I can and lay them out in the middle of the table, marveling.

It's been years since I made my first rose, and I still haven't figured out all my power can do.

"Pretty," Amy says, reaching over to pick one up. The petal snaps and we both wince as it falls to pieces against the tabletop. "And fragile," I shrug.

"So I can't mass-produce bath toys. Oh well," I say, mind already whirling with possibilities. I can already imagine new ways to play with light, new ways to create the illusion of imbalance. I'm going to have to tell Maudlin. He'll probably have a million different ideas by the end of the week.

"But you could make them for me?" Amy asks, looking at them with undisguised want. I raise an eyebrow.

"After you just broke one?" I reply skeptically. Amy is many things. Careful is not one of them. She waves her hand at me dismissively.

"I'll be careful," she assures me. "Also, that bath looked like a lot of fun. Do we have candles and candy?" she asks, pushing away her plate, clean of all but the tiniest scraps of food. I'm not sure how much of that is her simply eating a lot and how much is a metabolism tuned to keep up the million and three different things she has going on with her body, but it certainly makes leftovers a thing of the past. I crane my neck and look into the glass-faced cabinet where the sweets stay. Yup, a box of chocolates. Nice ones, too, which means they're probably leftovers from one of Vicky and Dean's spats.

Eh, she won't miss them.

"No candles, but yes to the chocolate," I say, picking up my plate and taking it to the sink. "Anyway, I'll finish up here if you want to start on the bath. Do you want tea?"

"No thanks," Amy says, dropping her plates next to mine. "Also, I was thinking I could try to get it as close to the bath in the video as possible. Flowers and all." I nod, studiously avoiding so much as a glance in her direction.

"Run the bath and I'll come by with the flowers and chocolate," I say. Amy growls and stomps off, each footstep like a miniature thunderclap. Soon enough I hear the water start running in the large bathroom, the one with a massive bathtub and shower stall. The one by the master bedroom.

I smile and take my time washing the dishes. Then I grab the chocolates, a bottle of wine, and head to the bathroom, shaking my hair free.

Too easy.


	3. Chapter 3

"It's not locked," Maudlin shouts, barely audible through the door and over the music filling the air, all synthesizers and metered rhyme, aggressive and hedonistic. "But if you're not invited, fuck right the hell off."

"Is this how you usually treat guests?" I ask, forcing a playfulness I don't feel into my voice as I open the door in full costume. The elevator ride up to his penthouse takes too long, so I stilted up to the roof and used the card under the potted plant. Not the safest thing in the world, trying to run across rooftops at night, but most of the fliers in the city are nominally on my side and the street lamps tend to provide enough illumination to be workable if I go slow.

Inside the penthouse are modern-style couches worth more than some car payments, art from people good enough to support themselves doing it on the walls, a full bar that gets emptied faster than any baseline human could survive, and a sound system that even the most dedicated of audiophiles would describe as a bit much. Maudlin likes his creature comforts, and he likes sharing them almost as much as he likes indulging in the first place.

He's normally better at keeping his place clean, though.

Paper is scattered across the floor, old news articles and line charts as well as used takeout containers and glass bottles, all empty. I can't see any stains on the upholstery, but that appears to be about the limit of his restraint.

"It is when they're not invited!" Maudlin shouts. He's on the balcony, sitting on the railing with his legs dangling over the edge and a bottle in one hand. "I toldja that people who weren't invited can fuck. Off. Unless you started working as an escort in these past four days that means leave." The words aren't heated though. Just... tired.

I sigh and carefully step over and around the scattered papers, adding an inch or two to my step as necessary. Bone boots click quietly against the concrete of the balcony as I come to stand to his right, the same side as the bottle. I tilt my head slightly to check the label. Cherry flavored vodka. Maudlin must pick up on my interest because he lifts it in my direction.

"If I give you booze will you go away?" he asks quietly. I shake my head, eyes fixed on the skyline. The view is amazing, even if the noise from the cars and pedestrians below is a little too loud for my liking.

"No," I reply, "I need to know that you won't do something stupid." Maudlin barks out a laugh at that.

"Me? Something stupid? Have you heard any of the stories about me time in Texas?" Maudlin asks, cackling into the night. My heart lifts a little, then falls as he lifts the bottle to his lips and takes two long pulls. "I only do stupid things."

"I'm not talking about business," I clarify, trying to remember the number of bottles on the floor of his apartment. Maudlin gives me a cockeyed glance, then looks down at the street for a long moment. He gives a half-hearted shrug.

"Nah, not going to off meself," he says, rolling his shoulders and shaking his mane out. "Just don't want to be around people for a bit." I let the statement sit in the air for a while, thinking about those words.

Another song comes on. This one's happier, brass and piano mixed with lyric and hope.

"Bullshit," I say. Maudlin groans.

"An' what makes you say that?" he asks, sipping at the bottle again. Not mad. Not interested. Just there.

"You're a people person," I say. He snorts.

"Lots of people-people out there who like a bit of peace and quiet from time to time," he says dismissively. I shake my head.

"You schedule your personal time weeks in advance. Sometimes months. That, and I asked around. No one intentionally pissed you off." There are people who meet Maudlin and don't like him. Those people tend to be either crazy enough to not be worth talking to, people predisposed towards hating Masters and social Thinkers, or people that Maudlin cares enough about to not just brute-force his way into their good books. Maudlin shrugs at the denial and waves his hand dismissively.

"People can piss me off easy enough without meanin' it," he says. This time I'm the one who snorts.

"Remind me, how is that Crowley kid?" I drawl, putting my hands on the railing and leaning into the breeze, inhaling the scent of salt.

"Doin' a lot better now that we're working on pulling out some of the shite his arsehole parents stuffed into his head," Maudlin says. "Wicky Boy even had a day two weeks back where he didn't call me monster."

"You talk to that piece of human garbage and you expect me to believe that your feelings were hurt by someone we know?" I ask, shaking my head. Honestly, Wicker Man doesn't have a worse rap sheet than Hookwolf so I really shouldn't be throwing stones, but Hookwolf also never went on a bigoted rant against me during a hostage situation. Maudlin cackles again.

"Yeah, that weren't me best lie," Maudlin says, a sad smile crossing his face. He sips again at the bottle, then holds it up, moonlight filtering through the fluid and making it sparkle like liquid diamond. "Tell you what, I'll get off this railing if you drink something with me while I finish the rest of this," he says, tapping the bottle with his other index claw. "I'll even make it for you."

"Done," I say, stepping back from the railing. Maudlin brings his feet under him, then stands up, balancing for a moment between the balcony and a several hundred foot fall.

I prepare to jump. To reach out.

Just in case

Then he steps down and strides through the sliding glass doors, beckoning with one hand.

"C'mon, we don't got all night," he says, the tiredness once more in his voice. I sigh as quietly as I can behind my mask and walk in after him.

We're not done here yet, but the danger is past.

The two of us head over to the bar, him slipping behind it as I take a stool. He goes through the motions, long fingers slipping the bitter and sugar into a glass together, stirring until the cube dissolves, and throwing in the liquor haphazardly. When I raise an eyebrow on my cross-hatched pseudo-bandage mask, he pushes the drink at me with a little more force than is strictly necessary.

"Yeah, it ain't IBA standard, but it's not like you're gonna be able to tell the difference," he grouses. He slumps into a stool behind the bar and pours the last of the vodka into a glass, then raises it in my direction. "To money," he says. I raise my own.

"To art," I correct and he snorts. Glass clinks against glass and we both drink, bone and lip parting to take in the liquid. I manage to suppress my wince at the unusually strong drink. Ugh.

We sit in silence for a bit.

The song changes. More strings, but metal ones, biting and dark.

"Why'd you go silent?" I ask quietly, looking up at Maudlin. This time he's the one to wait to answer as he fingers his glass, face drawn into an expression I think I've seen maybe twice before from him.

Exhaustion.

"I figured something out," he says. "I ain't telling you. Ain't telling anyone. It's not that sort of secret." I nod and take another sip, waiting for him to go on.

He swallows the last of the alcohol in one go, tilting his head back as his Adam's apple bobs twice. The glass comes down, but his head stays up.

"I had plans, you know?" he says, staring at the ceiling. "All this," — Maudlin motions at the apartment — "This was just for the scratch. Some quick cash so I could start working on the real problems. Cancer. Endbringers. Africa. We've got all the tech to do it, too," he adds, eyes dropping to stare at me with an intensity I've never seen in him. "Fuck tinkertech. Fuck fusion. We got shit today that can make the pack's life easy as shit. We got ways of figuring shit out that answer any fuckin' question in the world pretty well so long as you throw some cash at it. We could be meeting our great-great-great-great grandbrats. You and me," he says, gesturing to the two of us. "Can you think about what the world'd be like in fifty years? A hundred? I can't even fuckin' guess. And it's all _there_ " — now he's staring at the ground, needle-teeth bared and whipcord muscles writhing under his fur — "and I can't touch _any of it_!" The final words come out as a growl as his glass explodes into shards.

I stay stock still as Maudlin pants with rage, blood too dark to belong to an ordinary human running from his clenched fist. He closes his teal eyes and visibly steadies himself, splaying his hands on the bartop.

Then he opens his eyes and looks at me, once more merry and composed

"But that's my fuckin' problem! Anyway, mind picking the glass outta me hand?" he asks, raising the bloody palm and smiling ruefully. "Really shouldn't've did that." I remain still a moment longer, then shake my head.

"You scare me sometimes," I say quietly, taking his hand in my left even as the right grows a pair of tendrils. Maudlin's smile drops a fraction as he rubs the back of his head with his uninjured hand.

"Yeah, sorry about all that. Shoulda sent a text at least," he mumbles. He flinches as I start pulling the shards out, pain showing up in the lines around his eyes.

The song changes again. Distortion slowly coming into focus, wrapped around an extended verse, the story of a life, some good, some bad, all as honest as can be expected from a musician.

"What sort of problem is it?" I ask, focusing on his hand. The shards didn't go in deep, but there are a lot of them.

"What part of secret's so hard to understand?" Maudlin asks sarcastically. When I don't rise to the bait he sighs. "It ain't anything threatening me now. I know it, it knows me, and the two of us can stay as far a-fuckin'-part as possible."

"It's stopping your plans," I state, slipping out a sliver of glass I almost missed and holding it up to the light. Thin enough to have potentially split again, with Maudlin's blood turning nearly purple under the glare.

"Yeah it is," he mutters darkly. "Ain't no way to work around it, through it, or with it. Least, no way I'd be okay with."

"So change your goals," I say, placing the piece of glass delicately down on the bartop. Only a few more left. "Think about your victory condition. Find one that doesn't care about this problem, then pursue that relentlessly." Maudlin growls in irritation.

"Yeah, I'll just toss aside me last five years o' work. That's a plan," he says sarcastically. "Easy to fuckin' say when you're not the one giving anything up." I don't reply. I just keep picking the glass out of his hand, waiting for the penny to drop. His face falls as the silence grows longer.

"Fuck, that came out wrong," he says. "Sorry."

"You should be good now," I say, releasing his hand and pulling the makeshift tweezers back into my shell. "You should still see someone about it and check if it needs stitches. In the future, try to think through your actions a little more." I look at my palm, two streaks of his blood on it. "Just because I live with someone who's a doctor doesn't mean I magically know how injuries work."

"You're saying I should try to shack up with someone?" Maudlin asks, raising an eyebrow and grinning. I look back at him, showing my smile on my mask.

"If anyone will have you," I respond, letting my emotions into my voice as I flake away his blood. It doesn't hurt nearly as much as snapping off the plate entirely would. I wipe the flakes off to the side as I lean over the bartop and mock-whisper. "I think some of Amy's friends from work might be desperate enough to date a stuffed animal."

"Hey! I'll have you know I'm a dish," he says, adopting a mock-offended expression. "I've got cash, no criminal record, and the best damn hair in the entire world."

"Most of it below the neck," I counter. "And it's not hair, it's fur. You know it, I know it, now stop pretending and go to the fetish conventions already."

"They keep sending the invitations and I keep refusing, but I'll let you have your fantasies," he says, waving his hands magnanimously.

It gets better from there.

* * *

Eventually I leave, shooed out by Maudlin after I wrangle a promise of a more organized get-together with some of the more agreeable capes we both know out of him. By then the alcohol is mostly out of my system so when I stilt my way back to the right neighborhood I'm basically sober. On the other hand, he got me thinking about the future.

I stumbled into a viable career as an artist and part-time vigilante. I've managed to mostly avoid serious injury, and when I don't I have Amy to patch me up. I don't have to worry about money for the foreseeable future, nor gainful employment. I have a car, a house, social connections, and give back to my community in at least three different ways.

What's next?

I dip into an alleyway, push open a door hidden behind a few garbage cans, and flick on the light, illuminating a bench and a quartet of lockers. A place to change, one of many hidden around the area, because stilting up to Justia's apartment is just not subtle. I pull the shell back in, catch the lenses in my right hand, then drop them into a cup by the door. Amy fixed my other eye a while back so now I wear them mostly to protect against vision-based attacks. That, and because I haven't figured out a way to make halfway decent eye protection out of bone.

As I dress, I try to imagine what might be worth pursuing, what new challenges I could take on. More hero work? I dismiss it almost as soon as it comes up. That's asking for trouble, and while fighting supervillains is both cathartic and a service that does require ordinary citizens like me to step up, most of the time a hero's job is better done by the police. No, starting a patrol route won't scratch that itch.

I push out into the alley in gently worn jeans, loose shirt, and sensible sneakers, a little too nice for this part of town but not obviously so. I don't usually have to worry about street crime in this part of the city, but there are plenty of idiots willing to try to brave Accord's aegis for a quick buck. As I walk, I ruminate more on potential futures.

I could expand my business, but I also have no interest in spending more time at the shop. Creating more art would also devalue it, and my muse is fickle enough that spending a few more hours in the studio is unlikely to produce actionable results.

I shake my head as I step into my apartment building and press the call button for the elevator. White Rose is a dead end. I'm not going to figure out anything new by looking for things to improve my cape life. No, I need to stop thinking about things I'm already doing and instead try to find something to occupy my time that either isn't there already or doesn't receive enough attention.

As I open the door to the apartment and gently flick on the lights, my mind latches on to a better question: What do I, Taylor Hebert, want to do for the rest of my life?

"Hey you." I blink, looking towards the couch. Amy's snuggled up under a blanket, laying down lengthwise and looking up blearily at me. "Where'd you go so late?" she asks quietly, voice still full of late-night exhaustion.

"Maudlin was being..." I fumble for words as I step out of my shoes and slowly walk over to the couch before shrugging. "Maudlin. I went to check up on him." Amy nods once, then scoots back into the couch and pats the space in front of her. I sigh and comply, gently sinking into the cushions. I shuck off my shirt, socks, and pants, then lie down with my back to her. One arm slips under me, the other around, and soon enough Amy's pulled me close, face buried in my shoulder and legs tangled in mine.

We take a moment to just enjoy the contact.

"He okay?" she whispers. I pat her hands comfortingly and let out a long breath.

"He'll be alright. Just needs something to do," I say. After a pause, I adjust my grip on her hands and start running a thumb over her knuckles. "What should I do next?"

"Sleep, probably," Amy says, and I can feel the yawn she stifles. I sigh and shake my head ever so slightly.

"I mean with my life," I say. "Where should I be looking to be in ten years? In fifty?"

"Where'd this come from?" Amy asks curiously, voice still quiet but a little more awake. "Pretty heavy thoughts for way-too-late-o'clock."

"Just part of the conversation with Maudlin," I say, leaning back into her embrace and taking a moment to just enjoy the warmth. "Maudlin started complaining about running into problems with his long-term plans, which made me realize that I don't really have any at all."

"College?" Amy tries. "You certainly spend enough money on books," she adds, slipping a bit of sarcasm into her voice. I slap her hand playfully.

"Remind me, how much did you drop on that B-list horror movie collection?" I ask. I hear a groan, followed by a light knock to the back of my neck as Amy headbutts me.

"It's my money, you don't get to complain how I use it," she grouses. After a moment I feel a shuddering against my back and a light panting that means she's trying to suppress a chuckle. I smile ruefully and shake my head.

"I won't make fun of your hobbies if you don't make fun of mine," I propose. "Deal?"

"Deal," Amy says. Again, we descend into a comfortable silence.

Again, she's the one to break it.

"Is there anything wrong with the way you're living now?" she asks, dropping the half-affectionate moaning for quiet sincerity. I shake my head.

"There's nothing wrong with it," I assure her, idly rubbing one of her feet between my own. "I just could be doing more. Maybe reach a little farther, learn something new, see if I can't get something better."

"Do you want something better?" Amy asks. I turn my head to look at her, but can only barely make out her face from where it's hidden by my hair. After a moment, I let go of her hand and twist, rotating until I'm facing her.

Then I hug her close and rest my chin on the top of her head.

"You are wonderful," I whisper. I can feel her shiver in my arms. I start rubbing a circle into her back with my right hand as the left slides up and down her body, following her curves with my palm, pausing over her stomach to gently trace well-defined muscle with my fingers. "You are a wonderful girl who goes out to help people every day, who has saved more lives than anyone I know including Eidolon, and I could not possibly have a better girlfriend." I crane my neck down and kiss the top of her head. "The one area of my life I could never make better is you because you cannot improve on perfection. That's why it's called perfect."

"Flattery will get you everywhere," she whispers, voice shaky in a way that means either tears or barely-restrained lust. I bring my hand up from its wandering to gently chuck her chin up, meeting her gaze and transfixing her for a few moments, taking in the dilated pupils, slow pants, and flushed cheeks.

Lust it is.

I kiss her again, swallowing her hum of happiness and excitement. This time I don't pull back until I run out of breath, both of us a little more worked up.

"Do you know what I want right now?" I rasp, pushing a little bone out under my skin to get the pseudo-strength and firmness under my muscles I know she loves.

"What?" she whispers back eagerly, hands clenched tightly behind my back. It took me a long time to teach them not to wander, but the rewards...

I smile, baring teeth as I lean down to nip her shoulder. Another shudder.

" _You_ ," I whisper.

* * *

A/N: PM me for links to the songs.


	4. Chapter 4

"This sucks," Amy says, voice quiet. She's leaning her head against the wall of the elevator, right above the buttons and at an angle that hides her face from me.

"Yes," I agree, watching the number above the doors slowly increase. "It does." I reach out and put a hand on her shoulder, giving it a quick squeeze. She leans back into it, briefly turning her head to flash a quick smile. It's the tired kind, no less loving than the toothy ones that come with her laughter, but it's also heartbreakingly sad. I feel a stab of something wet and sorrowful and begin to consider telling Maudlin that we need to take a rain check-

 _Ding!_

The elevator goes still smoothly enough that I can practically feel the money thrown into its construction.

"Ugh," Amy groans as the doors open to reveal a short, lavishly decorated hallway that ends with a pair of mahogany double doors. "Time to be social." She pulls herself upright and brushes a few strands of hair out of her face as we walk, our footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. "That means you too," she adds, playfulness creeping back into her voice.

"I can handle myself," I reply, taking in the oil paintings hanging on the walls, intricately patterned wallpaper, and fresh flowers resting in very ornate and likely very expensive vases. "I'm a independent business owner who works the floor of her shop. People are not an issue." It took some time to learn how to talk the talk, both for the white collar half of the job and the executive half, but relying on someone else to talk to customers wasn't an option, not with my reputation at stake.

"Business conferences and parties are very different things," Amy teases. She stops just outside the doors and spins around, spreading her arms wide. "How do I look?"

Maudlin was quite clear that our normal costumes wouldn't be nice enough for this party, but I'm still wearing little more than my armor, albeit with vines twining around and between the plates and a face plate that's less like a great helm and more like an opera mask. I still don't have a mouth and the area around my eyes is warped with a near-domino mask of etched rose petals, but I suspect that this will be closer to the expected dress code than, say, a mess of fangs.

Isidis has on something a little more formal.

It's an ankle-length white dress, strapless and slit up the right leg. A half-cape and hood combination hangs around her neck clasped with a small golden ankh, and her arms are covered by white opera gloves that run up to mid bicep. She's eschewed makeup save for a touch of eyeliner (because any hygiene issues caused by the buildup of dead skin in pores simply doesn't apply to her) and her hair is twisted up into a complex braid/bun combination that's secured by a pair of lacquered bone needles.

Simple, elegant, and beautiful to the point that I have to actively remind myself that we are both in a public place and about to go interact with other humans, and that ruining our looks with a frantic make-out session would be a bad thing.

"Passable," I say, tearing my roaming eyes away and pushing open the door as Amy squawks indignantly. Then I stop for a moment at the threshold and simply take in the sight before me.

When Maudlin said he was throwing a party, I thought he meant renting out a few of a restaurant's back rooms for the night, ringing up a few of our business partners, and introducing them to some of the less-scary capes. Ten, twelve people tops, maybe with a live band. Going to the Battery Wharf Hotel is more than a step up from that, but not so far as to be unreasonable.

What's not quite as reasonable is the sheer number of capes in the room.

Gallant and Victoria are off in a corner talking quietly to a nervous-looking woman in a pantsuit and red shawl. Vicky is sporting a genuine smile as Dean waves an arm around, armored bulk exaggerating his body language to nearly comedic levels. Valiance is standing near the bar on the right side of the room with a hologram floating over his palm, designs and schematics shifting and changing color as a pair of shorter Tinkers poke and prod at it, their monochrome color schemes a stark contrast to his red and gold. Vista is across the room by another source of alcohol chatting up an increasingly-uncomfortable man in chainmail at least a head taller and fifty pounds heavier than her who's staring into his glass of beer like he wants to drown in it. Vector is leaning against the far wall nursing something brown and frothy at the top, for once not in a hoodie and jeans. The rope of rags wrapped around his face doesn't go with his cheap suit at all, but the Changer in the backless black dress that lets her prismatic gossamer wings flutter freely jabbering away next to him doesn't seem to mind. I think I even see a cocktail dress well-tailored enough to belong to an Ambassador moving through the crowd, a simple featureless white mask hiding her face from view.

Those are just the capes I recognize. More crowd the room, a gentle chatter filling the air as the most parahumans I ever seen outside of a Endbringer fight circulate around the hall, a volatile solution of power and personality quirks that somehow hasn't blown up yet.

"'Ey, look who finally showed up!" a growly voice says. Maudlin slips out of the crowd and walks up to me, arms spread wide and a grin on his face that would send a herbivore into cardiac arrest. "How's my favorite cape partner-in-profit doin'?"

"Are you insane?" I ask calmly, mentally calculating the fastest route out of here. _Grab Amy, dash for the window, throw up flak screen of splinters into the air to discourage pursuit, and if anyone tries to get in my way-_

"No, I ain't," he says, snapping his fingers twice in front of my face, a move that would've been suicidal for anyone else. "I can give you the big picture if you wanna talk it out over a drink. Old Fashioned for you, and if the lady on your arm could make her order?" he asks, shifting his gaze to Isidis. She smiles politely at him.

We're just friends," she says, and the words make something sharp inside of of me _writhe_. "And I'll have a Sex on the Beach," she says, stepping in front of me and striding towards the closest bar. Maudlin looks at me, then to Isidis's retreating form, then back to me.

"It's complicated," I say, brushing past him and heading for the bar on the opposite side of the room. I nod to the people I'm on good terms with, ignore Metalhead's greeting, and sit down on a plush leather stool, beckoning the bartender with one hand. "Old Fashioned. Two of them." I leave him with an azalea as a tip and start steadily working away at the drinks, resisting the urge to turn around and look for Amy.

These are the hazards of dating a cape with a public persona when you want to have a civilian life. Amy and Taylor can't interact in public because it paints a target on Taylor's back, and White Rose can't go out with Isidis because then people will start looking at the people in Amy's life to figure out who her date is. Both of us knew that when we started going out, and most of the time it isn't a problem. We eat in, watch films on the needlessly large screen Vicky made us order, and make our own fun.

Then there are the times where we both have to go out and pretend we don't know each other.

I have no idea how Dean and Vicky manage it. Maybe he got inoculated against being in the public eye at an early enough age that managing a serious girlfriend, a cape life, and a job in an executive position with his father's shipping company are just things he can do. Maybe Vicky knows the PR game well enough that divorcing Gallant from Dean is something she can just _do_ , and suppressing the urge to _beat the costumed thug in a jester's hat asking Amy to dance_ -

I sigh and throw back the rest of the drink as I push past the thought, forcing myself to stay put and reach for the second glass.

This is going to be a long night.

* * *

"You mind loosening up a bit?" Maudlin asks, two more drinks and not enough time later. He's walked up to me holding an electric blue drink in a tall glass, apparently untouched, and his eyes look worried. "It's supposed to a party, not a fight to the death. A smile wouldn't be outta place." I give him a glare, hating the rush of relief I feel because if he's with me and talking it means that I'm not thinking about how I'm not with Amy on the dance floor-

"Isn't my scene," I say, resisting the urge to take another drink. I need to pace this one. Apparently Maudlin put a maximum in place, which I found out when I ordered my fifth and sixth tumblers and got only the fifth. I can't blame him for it, but I can grouse just fine.

"Yeah, and neither's hobnobbing with old money and new wives but you managed the meeting with those greybeards at the AIB alright," he says, sitting down next to me. The other bar patrons cleared out fast when I made it plain I didn't want to talk, and the few people who mustered up the courage to exchange words fled for better conversation soon after. That, and the DJ Maudlin hired started playing his set, which prompted Gallant and Vicky to take the floor, which prompted more people to try their hand at dancing, and now Isidis is dancing with a girl in green and blue with a beautiful smile and long black hair _who needs to have hands removed for-_

Once more I go back to the drink, staring at the slightly-melted ice cubes like they can do something to solve this. Maudlin groans next to me.

"I think I know what's up," he says, pushing his untouched drink towards me, "and it's fucked. Ain't gonna lie. But if you keep mopin' I'm gonna throw you out." I turn my head to look at him and see him wearing a smile that says he's serious. "I'm gonna leave this here," he says, pointing to the glass of liquor, "'Cause I have shit to do. And you both better be gone by the time I get back." With those parting words he stands up, shakes out his fur, and strides back into the crowd. Soon after I can hear him barking again, bringing laughter and soothing ruffled feathers as he makes the rounds. As he goes I taste musk and smell sweat. I blink twice, then grit my teeth, finish my drink, and pull the blue one in front of me as I consider his words.

Maudlin's a Thinker that can do a pretty scary Master impression, but he usually doesn't use his abilities on anyone he cares about, and when he does he's usually upfront about why even if it doesn't seem that way at first. So why'd he blast me, what did he do, and _should I cut him open for it_?

The why's pretty easy: I'm killing the party. I'm a small part of it, but if cutting me out of the pack makes this crazy gathering of parahuman firepower one percent more stable I should leave. Hell, if I had known that I'd just be drinking, moping, and watching _Isidis dance with a different girl, a laugh visible from across the room that I can't hear-_

I find myself lifting up the blue drink and force my hand back down. Ugh. I don't normally drink more than one cocktail a night. Two makes my thinking slower, three slips a haze between my actions and my thoughts, and I generally don't remember much past four.

I snort. There's a potential what, actually. Getting a drunk to shut up and listen instead of zoning out is completely within the scope of Maudlin's tricks, and it makes sense too. He's probably been talking down people all night long, making sure low-key disagreements don't turn into thrown punches, into a brawl that would level the building we're in, into a battle that would level city blocks and leave the reputation of everyone involved in tatters. Hell, I can't even be mad about it, so no vivisection by bone knife today for him.

I sigh and look into the glass, then lift it and take a sip. Sweet and sour. Actually not bad. I'll finish off this drink, then head out. I'd wanted to hang around and see if Maudlin hit it off with anyone, but at this time I'm more likely to hinder his attempts than witness any. Best I just-

"Hail, fair maiden! Might I ask you to dance?"

I stop in the middle of my second sip and turn around slowly.

A pitch-black breastplate covers his upper chest, lines suggesting inhumanly large pectoral muscles drawn onto it in gold. Chainmail is draped over his abdomen with bright, scarlet cloth visible between the gaps of his armor, and glossy pauldrons make his shoulders seem artificially broad. His gauntleted hands are curled in fists resting on his hips, the very picture of majestic self-assurance.

It would be more impressive if I wasn't at least a head and a half taller than him.

I look him dead in his glowing-red eyes, the rest of his face hidden behind a full-face black mask, and hold his gaze.

What?

"You appear to be less than entertained by our silver-tongued host, and rather than let you sink further into the life of a lush I have decided to grace you with my infernal presence," he says, extending a hand in a way I'm sure is meant to be chivalrous, but comes across as awkward. "Now then, to the dance floor."

I hold still for a moment longer.

Then I laugh. Several other capes laugh with me, some nicely, some not. Credit to Black, Red, and Gold, he takes it pretty well. I see a slight slump to his shoulders, a depression in his mask when he sucks in air, and then he's pulled himself back up.

"I see that I am not wanted. Farewell, White Rose," he says, turning on his heel. He doesn't have a cape, but I can tell he wishes that he could pull it off.

"No, wait," I say, motioning to the seat next to me as I take another sip of whatever drink Maudlin left me. "Tell me, did a case fifty-three with pink fur send you over?" I ask.

"The beast man, yes," he says, taking a small hop to get onto the stool. "He told me that you had found yourself listless, and that my particular brand of charisma would help. A drink," he says, raising a hand to the bartender. "One that matches hers."

"One Adios Motherfucker coming up," the bespeckled man says, maintaining a straight face even as Black, Red and Gold's hand falls to the countertop and I start laughing again. So that's what the drink is called. I'll have to thank Maudlin the next time I see him, because I haven't laughed this hard since Amy got into an innards fight with Dorian.

"Anyway, what's your name?" I ask once he has his drink. "I don't believe I've seen you around before."

"Indeed, my domain lies a tad farther afield," the cape says, lifting up the bottom of his mask to drink. The skin revealed is slightly scarred from acne, with several more prominent lines raised up and pale on his chin. "My full name is Mygoloth the Dastardly, though the local lawbringers find it easier to refer to me as My." I manage not to laugh at his deadpan delivery and nod once instead. Maybe I shouldn't scare this one off. Amy's having fun, so why shouldn't I?

"What do you know about me?" I ask, toying with my glass. It's nearly half empty, and I'm feeling flushed instead of disconnected now, a little floaty and more than a tad aggressive.

"Precious little," he replies, shaking his head. "My time is spent scouting the true villains, and once I had made my intentions clear to the justicars I found no pressing need to make inquiries into any others."

"But you know my name?" I inquire, shifting the rose petals on my mask to imply a raised eyebrow. I don't do public events, not anymore, but even without them I had figured that people with a stake in the semi-local cape scene would at least know _of_ me.

"I confess, I would not have if Maudlin had not informed me," Mygoloth says, shrugging. "Please, illuminate me." I throw back the last of my Adios Motherfucker (name aside, it's not a bad drink) and leave the glass upside down on the bar before turning to look at him.

"Where to begin?" I start, tapping my chin thoughtfully.

* * *

"We should dance," I say, nodding twice as the idea gains more appeal. I haven't seen Amy in a while, but she looked like she enjoyed it when she was twirling around with those other pretty capes. My's been slipping me parts of his drinks as the night's gone on, and frankly _everything_ seems like a good idea now.

"While I regret to turn down a request of any sort from a figure as esteemed as yourself, I feel obligated to inform you that the ability to move in time to music is not chief among my skills," My replies slowly, shaping his words with care. I think he's not used to drinking, and that the four halves of each Adios Motherfuckers he's had (I should ask Maudlin to make me those from now on) have gone to his head. "Furthermore, I have responsibilities that come with the rising sun-"

"Now," I interrupt, grabbing his hand and pulling him up as I slide off the stool. The height difference is even more apparent now that we're both standing, and I shrink my heels a little as I drag him towards the center of the room, almost laughing at his reluctance and the crowd's surprise. It's ballroom dancing, formal and calculated, and I wouldn't like my odds at not making a fool of myself if I wasn't sloshed.

But since I am I don't care.

I clasp hands with Mygoloth, an arm around his waist, and together we stumble through something like a waltz. I dimly remember Mom and Dad showing me the moves, long steps that always ended with the feet coming back together. I don't mangle My's toes, so I think I did alright. He's not so bad either, actually. He keeps up despite his professed clumsiness, gently guiding me away from the other dancers when I stumble towards them. He even manages a twirl or two, and before long I'm smiling behind my mask. It's not magical, not a night with Amy or a visit to the graveyard, but it distracts me for a song or three, nothing on my mind but the music and the movement.

Eventually My breaks contact with me at the end of a song and steps back out of the crowd with his back to the door. He bows, then straightens, mask as unreadable as ever. His hands are open though, and I think his stance is a little more relaxed than it was at the beginning of the night.

"As pleasing as this evening has been, I really must be going," he says, backing up towards the door. "May your foes quail in fear at your approach, and your allies always hold fast." I wave at him, sketching a smile across my mask in vines.

"I hope you have a good night," I respond as warmly as I can, and give him a brief wave. He's nice. I should look into him later. My nods back then walks for the exit, pushing open both doors and disappearing into the hallway. After he's gone I sigh, then begin the walk towards the other bar. No more companionship for White Rose, then. Maybe the other bartender doesn't know I've been cut off-

"Excuse me, White Rose?" a quiet voice calls out, high and tinkling like hollow glass wind chimes. I pause, pushing down a surge of irritation and turning towards the source.

It's the winged cape that was talking to Vector earlier, less than an arm's length away from me. Up close she looks even more inhuman, with six rings of color in each eye and skin so smooth I can't see any pores. Pretty, in a glossy, beetle-y sort of way.

"I couldn't help but notice that your date left and I was kinda sorta wondering if you wanted to keep dancing and if you needed a partner and that I could be that partner since I also don't have a date?" she says, words tumbling from her lips in an effortlessly melodic tune, shifting her gaze to stare over my shoulder. I open my mouth to refuse.

Then I reconsider.

"He wasn't my date, but I would love to dance with you," I reply, extending my hand, palm up, towards her. "I'm a little out of it," I warn her, leading us back to the pack at the center of the room. "I can't promise I'll be the best partner." The Changer laughs, the sound like silver bells struck by rain.

"I'll take that risk," she says, wings blurring into motion, lifting her off the ground in a shimmer of gasoline rainbows until we see eye to eye. "Besides," she teases, taking my other hand and pulling me close. "I'm a little out of it too," she whispers in my ear.

"What's your name?" I ask as a new song comes on, feeling the heady rush that comes from being in close proximity to a beauty, the liquor acting as an accelerant and turning her wings into arches of gemstone, making the night almost mystic as the light warps around her into a vivid bands of color.

"Shine," she says, a faint glimmer appearing around her eyes. "Now, how much do you know about tango?"

* * *

I dance with her for three songs, learning the intricacies of how to move when one party laughs at gravity. I politely decline a fourth but accept Valiance's hand as the music shifts from the ballroom forms to something a little faster. He's awkward, stiffer and more nervous than Shine was, but he also seems to know something about what he's supposed to be doing, and when he departs for the circle of Tinkers I can't say I regretted my time with him.

I continue to dance, slowly working through the alcohol in my system thanks to a combination of physical exertion and hors d'oeuvres. I lose track of my number of partners. Some are grotesque, some more perfect than real, and others human save for the masks across their faces, across their eyes, across their mouths. I fall deeper into the group, loosening up and sinking into the good cheer.

Then I find a partner with no mask.

"Hi," Isidis says, looking me dead in the eye and standing far closer than anyone else was willing to, close enough that I can imagine her body heat soaking into my bone. "I don't think we've danced yet." There's something in her voice, something soft and fragile. I recognize it from those times when I make mistakes, from when she doesn't communicate, from when things get bad between us for a while.

"No, we haven't," I reply, overwhelmed by the sudden _Amy_. Fortunately, the rest of me is not so passive, clasping my arms around her and pulling us back into the fold, into a close dance, both of my hands on her back and both of her arms around my neck. She sounds mad or sad or something bad and I don't know what went wrong. I curse what little liquor is left in my blood, the gentle floatiness it's causing an unforgivable barrier between me and her.

"You could have started dancing earlier," she says, staring resolutely at my neck as we sway. I nod, looking just over her head as I wrack my mind. Should I have gone with her at the start and damned the consequences? Shadowed her all night and risked being seen as a stalker? Should I have sought her out, made the effort to try and pretend like we were only friends, substitute a desire of affirmation for the crippling loneliness?

"I didn't feel like it," I whisper, thorns growing on my vines and flowers blooming in the gaps of my armor. Yes and yes and yes. Isidis is playing with my bones, if anyone asks. Powers are strange things and no one fully understands them.

"And then you did. And you danced with a lot of other people," she whispers, quiet enough that I lean down, trying to get closer to her voice, trying to understand. Was I not supposed to? Was I supposed to only dance with her? With no one? "You weren't looking for me."

"I was waiting," I murmur back. We're moving towards the edges of the group, slowly heading towards another doorway. "Waiting for you to chase me. To look for me. Waiting for my dances to become common enough to attract no notice." I scramble for any excuse besides _I forgot_ , because how could I say that to her and I need to save face and pretend like seeing her with Vista didn't feel like steel in my lungs and _what am I doing!?_

Amy laughs once, but there's something hysterical in it.

"So was I," she says. "Waiting, waiting, waiting, for my knight in dying armor to find me." We're clear of the crowd now, and I back us through a door into a far less posh hallway that leads to either the bathrooms, the kitchen, or the roof, the door closing behind us. I pull her up, into my arms and tendrils of bone reach tighter, clinging, trying to pretend like I haven't fucked up.

"I was angry," I say quietly, pushing out more bone to shove open another door, reaching up and pulling the two of us up the staircase behind it. "Angry at the situation. At myself, at the rules, at how things are. I'm sorry." I thin my shell, thin it until nothing but a wafer separates us, translucent and almost golden in the fluorescent light.

"It's okay," she says, an odd thickness to her voice that tells me that it's not. I push open a second door to take us out into the chill night air, starless sky, cold gravel roof, and black waterfront view, desolate and rumbling with the indistinct sounds of the party behind us.

"Tell me what you want," I say, both hands free of armor, gently tracing her face, skin on skin once more. I don't press farther than that though as I have to shove _down_ the bone that wants to emerge and put distance between us, to make it harder to hurt me. "Tell me what I can do to make this right. Please," I whisper, gently knocking my forehead against hers, the last word less begging and more prayer, quiet enough that I'm worried she didn't hear it. I surrender the initiative, an agonizing _wait_ settling in as she refuses to meet my eyes, instead resting her palms on my shoulders, halfway between a hug and a shove.

For a moment there's a long, terrifying silence, and I feel like I'm on the edge of a cliff, looking down into darkness, into emptiness.

"Can we go flying?" she asks quietly, leaning into me, forehead knocking on my breast plate. I hug her as firmly as I can go without causing her any more pain.

"Of course," I say, wrapping us both in bone, limbs growing out below us and stiliting us towards the edge of the building, a construct of lattice and gossamer growing above and behind me. "Any time you want."

I step off the edge, dropping us both into empty space. Then I flap once and we're flying.

* * *

A/N: If anyone wants the songs, PM me.


	5. Chapter 5

We land on the roof of our apartment building, a tangle of limbs, bone, and cloth. When Amy gently pushes away from me, I have to force myself to pull the bone harness back in, to relax my hands and keep my mask down, to show vulnerability. It feels _wrong_ to be so open, to feel the wind tickling my nose and making my cheeks red with cold.

I sneeze. Amy chuckles once, but there's something missing from the sound. Like it's a reflex, with none of the joy of a decision. Like it's out of habit, not happiness.

"Can we go inside?" I ask, rubbing one of arms and _forcing_ myself to look at Amy. "It's kind of chilly out here." She's still not really looking at me. In my direction, maybe, but her gaze is over my shoulder, eyes shaded by the dark city night and the hood she's drawn up against the cold.

"Sure," she says, walking over to the roof access door and pulling a key card out of some fold in her dress. I walk behind her quietly as we go down the stairwell, through the hallway, past the door, to the couch, and then we're sitting there on the couch, her reclining on the other side of it and me a cushion away staring at her as she stares out the window at the gently glowing city and we're both silent and I'm confused and _I don't know how to handle this_ -

I stop thinking for a moment and reach out a hand, _wanting_ nothing more than to show her that I still care, that she's more important than some fucking dance, than Maudlin, and that if she wanted to never see anyone here ever again and just live like recluses we could take our money and change our names and move to England and anyone who tried to bring us back or stop us in anyway _could eat a pike of barbed_ ** _murder_** _-_

-then I pause, hand hovering in the awkward space between us.

It's not my turn to lead.

I leave my uncurled hand between us, relaxed and waiting for hers. I have my eyes closed against the not-quite-there stinging in my eyes and I grit my teeth to keep anything I might regret from escaping my mouth, forcing myself to _wait_. To _wait_ for her to reach across. To _wait_ for proof that I haven't fucked everything straight to hell. To put myself in her skin and long for contact, for sight, for _something_.

It's the longest I-don't-know-how-long of my life.

Then warmth threads itself between my bone-clad fingers and it's all I can do to stay still, to let her be the one to pull us into a half hug and settle my other hand on her hip. When she lies against me, head in the crook of my neck and legs curled up on my thighs, I let her be the first one to gently kiss my neck instead of leaning down and claiming the first touch. Every cell in my body wants to move, to take action, to set the tone, to _show her who I am_ -

I tear my thoughts away from myself, from making this about me, and try to lose myself in sensation. I focus on the feel of her gently peeling my armor plates away, of her running hands and fingers over freshly-bare skin and raising goose bumps. I inhale the scent of something like salt and vanilla that has to be perfume but could also just be her, trying to divide what Amy puts on from what she is. I strain my ears, listening for anything like forgiveness, like communication, something to soothe the rawness in my heart that's my fault _but please don't leave me here alone and wondering_.

Then there's pressure on my lips and I taste her and I stop thinking because there are more important things to be doing.

* * *

"This sucks, you know?"

I slowly draw myself out of the remnants of my dreams, waiting for information to process. Warmth in my arms, air at my back, hair in my face. Light filtering in through the window, turning the dust particles into little galaxies floating in beams of sunshine above a crumpled dress and scattered undergarments. We must've slept on the couch, then.

I squeeze a little tighter, pulling Amy closer to banish the lingering chill.

"It sucks and it shouldn't," Amy says, voice in that scary monotone that means she's trying really, really hard to be objective. "I knew this sort of thing would happen from day one, that we wouldn't be able to go out like Dean and Vicky or Ava and Everett or Chris and whoever decides to jump his bones this week but I thought I could handle it. We could get take out or dance here on our own or you could read to me or we could watch stupid movies or anything else and" — she draws in a shuddering breath I feel shake against my chest— "who wants a crowd anyway? Fuck 'em, right?"

"I love you," I whisper in her ear, lacing our fingers together and holding them over her heart.

"I _know_ that," she says, still monotone. "It's scary sometimes, how much you care. You threw yourself off a building to learn how to fly because you overheard me talking to Vicky about missing the convenience it offered." I wince at the reminder. Perhaps not my finest moment. "For our one year anniversary you decided to take us both to France and paid Strider to handle transportation because that was the least conspicuous way for the both of us to travel," Amy continues. "You abandon projects at the drop of a hat to eat or hang out or do any damn thing I want, whether it's the middle of the day or three in the morning." She shrinks a little, pulling her arms in, and I compensate by spreading myself out more to cover her. "It's hard to match that, you know."

"I'm sorry," I whisper, cursing myself for not having better words, for not knowing how to turn the great big ball of longing and love and lust and every other emotion I feel towards the wonderful, _perfect_ girl in my arms into something she can understand. "I love you."

"You try so hard to make this work," she says, ignoring me. "Do you know how many capes have lives outside of being capes? Almost none. It's a full-time, over-time job. I should know," she adds, a small, humorless chuckle slipping out. "I've been tracking my own hours for a while. I make time for us whenever I can, and try to take time off and I know I need to think of what I want when I schedule but it's hard because everyone is always thinking about how I could be doing _so much more_ even if I know they're idiots who don't think about how I could burn out doing that and how that'd lead to even bigger fuck-ups down the line and-"

"Amy," I whisper, gently tapping the back of her head with my chin. "You're getting worked up again."

"And that's the fucking problem!" Amy says. The words come out in a hiss and I have to fight the urge to shrink back from it, to let her fury blow itself out while I wait somewhere else, because this time it's _my fault_. I deserve this. "I knew that this would be hard. I know that you want to have your own life, to be able to be Taylor without being White Rose as well. I understand everything about the situation _and the thought of you dancing with someone else still makes me sick_."

I let the silence settle for a while as I listen to her heaving breaths, rubbing her belly with one hand and trying to work in my support for her with it. She settles down, curling forward and away from me, quiet again.

I curl forward with her.

"You're like a black hole, you know?" she says. I don't know how to respond to that, so I just pull myself closer. "You don't notice it because you're too busy moving, focused on the little things like hands and where everyone is relative to the exit and what you're going to do next but when you walk into a room everyone starts falling towards you. Maudlin fell, Chris fell, Vicky fell, and the only people who can decide not to are either assholes or black holes themselves, pulling us all along for the ride."

"Amy," I whisper, holding my voice as still as I can, like a hummingbird wing made of glass. "What can I do?" She laughs without humor.

"I need to find a way to see you as Taylor when you're Taylor and White Rose when you're White Rose. I need to learn to not think about who you fight beside, who you might be sleeping with on the side, and to remember that we spend more than enough time together to qualify as a healthy couple. I need to get it through my skull that we're not going to be like other couples so I should stop fucking worrying about not being like other couples and just be happy!" she ends in a shout, causing me to wince at the volume.

For a moment, the flat reverberates with the noise, the rage bouncing off the walls, almost too much for them to hold, threatening to blow them open and collapse the roof on top of both of us. The moment stretches on, her muscles tensing against mine, drawn and taut as piano wire.

Then she sniffles.

Amy was never a big crier. She subscribed to the "If I don't acknowledge it, it can't hurt me" school of coping, in that whenever things got too hard she'd throw herself into work, into me, into whatever was furthest away from the problem. I'd have to drag her away from patients, out of bed, towards whatever issue she had been avoiding until it got solved. She doesn't really do emotional responses to external stimuli, not unless things get really bad.

She sniffles again.

"I'll figure it out," she says quietly. "Don't worry about it."

I keep rubbing her, hugging her, and pretending like her speech didn't turn my stomach into poison, then try to go back to sleep, willing reality away in favor of the fantasy resting against me.

* * *

"Do you want to go flying?" I ask, eyes fixed on my book as I try to make my voice sound as casual as possible. Like I'm not about to take a gamble that would make even Maudlin raise his eyebrows skeptically.

"Sure," Amy says, her own book gently _thumping_ down on the coffee table and couch creaking as she stands up. "Meet you on the roof," she adds, walking over and bending down to give me a quick kiss on the head. I hum in approval, the small token of affection temporarily distracting me from the roiling apprehension in my gut. Then she leaves and I stay still, waiting for her to kick her shoes on and physically leave our apartment.

Only then do I stand up from my chair, head to the bathroom, slip into a spare set of clothes, and armor up. One last once-over in the mirror to adjust the lay of the plates, to pick a better mask, and the plan is ready to proceed.

A short set of stairs later and I'm on the roof with Amy. I stretch out my arms, mask set in a gentle smile, once more made of rose blossoms and vines. She in turn steps back into me, not flinching when bone loops around her to secure our limbs and bodies together.

"Ready?" I whisper.

"Yup," Amy says cheerfully, drumming her fingers on the grips in her palms. Mostly useless (it's not like she's going to start flapping herself), but they make her feel safer. "Let's go."

I move forwards, slowly and carefully, until we're at the edge of the building looking down at a drop long enough to make cars look like toys and people like ants.

I take a deep breath and feel Amy give the grips of bone a squeeze.

Then I fall forward.

I almost don't want to describe what I can do as flight. It's too reliant on the whims of the air currents, too finicky and fragile to use in combat, and the wings have to be gargantuan, always skirting the practical limit of the thrust equation imposed by the cube-root law even after I make the bone less dense. Compared to Chris's suit, Victoria's floating, or even any halfway decent airplane, it's downright crude. Clumsy. Patchwork.

I push out bone, thin and light and wide, then _flap_ , catching air and pushing it downwards. I pull bone in, reducing the wings to skeletons, more bat-like or insectile than avian, and lift them. Push out bone, fill in the gaps, then push down. Repeat until cruising altitude is attained, then fix the wings in place and enjoy.

My friends' reactions to the experience of flying with me have been mixed. Chris refused to say anything bad, but he also never asked for a second ride. Maudlin liked it, but he also cackled like a hyena when Butcher XVII started a gang war near the restaurant where he was having coffee with a group of potential investors so his response really shouldn't factor into any assessment. Vicky didn't mind the height, but did complain about being bound, opinion again skewed by power use.

I do know that Amy likes it more than Vicky's method though. Something about how it feels less unnatural and more controlled even though it's also probably less safe.

For a while we just float, kept aloft by thermals and the occasional wing flap, looking down at the city and enjoying the quiet. There's a small buzz at my lower back when a timer goes off. I snap out of the comfortable silence, the plan once more in my mind.

I take a deep breath, bracing myself.

Then I rush forward, speaking before sense can catch up with me.

"Do you mind if we get something to eat?" I ask, heart pounding behind my breastplate.

Amy cranes her head back, giving me an odd, inquisitive look. I keep my mask still as I look back. She drops the expression in favor of passive agreement as she looks down again.

"Sounds like a plan. Greek?" she asks. I let out a breath.

"I... actually had a place in mind," I say, subtly angling us towards the nicer part of town. "French." Not a lie.

"Ooh, fancy," Amy says, a small tease in her voice. "That sounds cool too. I'm still in work clothes though," she adds, "so unless you want to deal with fans we should probably head back and change."

"I can put up with it," I say. The destination is in sight. I need to keep her distracted. "I'm not that much less famous than you. A few autographs aren't going to kill me."

"Your funeral," Amy says, shrugging. "Just don't complain to me when- BUILDING!" she screams, finally noticing the approaching skyscraper, not fifty feet away from us and dead in our path.

"I know," I say, titling my wings subtly to angle us towards the twenty third floor, where the building has an indent open to the elements and sporting several tables, the people at them eating quietly. Were eating, because Amy's scream has drawn the attention of every diner, all of who are now looking up at us as we make our approach. "They're expecting us," I clarify, angling for the line of open space kept clear by a remarkably composed waiter motioning with his platter like he's an air traffic controller. I oblige him, flaring my wings to burn off speed then shifting them into a makeshift parachute to slow us further, until I finally pull it all in and dead fall the last fifteen feet at an angle. One foot hits the ground, then the other, and then I'm stumbling forward, rapid, heavy steps burning off what remains of our momentum until we come to a halt, the absolute center of attention.

I peel away from Amy, taking the bone with me and replacing the grips of bone with my palms, temporarily lacing fingers with her and giving them a squeeze as I lean down to place my mouth by her ear.

"Freesia," I whisper and I feel her stiffen. For a moment my heart goes into free-fall and I worry that I went too far, too fast, and that I screwed it up and that I never should've tried this-

"Yellow," she whispers back and I nearly collapse from relief. Go slow. Slow I can do. Slow is what I need.

"White Rose and Isidis," I say, turning around and looking for the waiter, releasing one of Amy's hands and keeping hold of the other. "I believe we have a reservation for five thirty?"

"Right this way," he says, gesturing towards a far part of the balcony, his voice somewhere between shell shocked and almost aggressively bored. I give him a short, polite nod, then walk in the indicated direction, ignoring the stares the two of us attract as we make our way to a two-seater table with a wonderful view of the water.

After pulling out chairs for the both of us and handing out menus, the waiter leaves. Once he's firmly out of earshot, Amy props up her head with one arm while she pretends to peruse the menu, eyes locked on mine and hand conveniently blocking sight of her mouth..

"Okay, so why did you use a code word in public?" she hisses. "This is _not_ the place to experiment with new kinks!" I feel myself flush under my mask, then force myself to relax, reminding myself of the why for this plan. Of Amy's voice, of all the things she only talks about when things are really bad, of the dark nights where I can't sleep because _what if I have to choose between her and Taylor?_

I notice thorns growing along my arm, just nubs for now but more than ready to reach out and _tear through something_. I pull them back in, shaking my head.

This needs to happen.

"It's not that. I... wanted to talk about us," I say, folding the menu. "About what you said the morning after Maudlin's party." Amy's expression falls, a frame of fearful resignation, then comes back up, eyes set and mouth pressed into a hard line.

"And you wanted to do it public? Weren't you the one who wanted to keep our relationship secret?" she snaps, and I feel the stab of something sharp and cold in my chest. Amy must recognize it, because she abandons her menu as well, dropping her face into her hands. "Fuck. That was uncalled for. I'm sorry, I'm just-"

"We're here because I might unmask today," I whisper quietly.

Amy stops talking. Her hand falls down, and the menu hits the floor.

"That night... you weren't wrong," I say, grabbing my napkin and unwrapping it, setting aside the silverware. "We're not like other couples. Dean and Vicky are together because he's one of the only people she can trust to be honest and she's the only one who doesn't care whether he's a Stansfield or a cape. Ava and Everett started dating because neither of them could stand to be alone anymore. Chris..." I trail off, eventually settling on a shrug. "Chris is married to his job." I stare at the napkin, slowly rolling it up, then unrolling it, trying to keep my hands busy. "I don't want to be like that."

"Where are you going with this?" Amy asks. I can't place her tone.

"I don't know," I say. "I've been doing some thinking, but I don't have answers." I inhale, trying to clear my head. "But you're right. We're not like other couples. We could be less different though."

"Taylor, I'm not going to-" she starts.

"Please," I say, voice nearly breaking. "I need to get this out now or I don't know when I will." I lean back in my chair, staring straight up. Maybe this will be easier if I don't look directly at her.

I hope.

"Taylor Hebert isn't a huge part of my life," I say slowly, picking my words as carefully as I can. "She doesn't fight anybody. She doesn't make money. She doesn't go to parties. She's important though." I take a breath and wish, for the first time in a long time, that I could break a bone to release some of the sick, sticky _regret_ inside of me. "She lets me walk down the street without worrying about being attacked. About being stopped every fifty feet for an autograph, a selfie, or just a word. She lets me walk away and have a moment to myself, a time to be alone if I want." I inhale again, wishing that I could suck in more air, get this out faster. "Taylor Hebert is how I run away, a place to go when being White Rose is intolerable."

"And it'd be perfect if you could join me there," I say quietly, dropping my head fast enough to avoid catching more than a blur of brown eyes and a smattering of freckles. "But you can't."

I sit there, breathing, trying to keep my shuddering to a minimum, holding my shell still, hiding myself in it.

"I've been having my cake and eating it," I say quietly, "Because you have been willing to put aside what you want."

"And that's my fucking choice to make," she says, steel in her voice. I don't look up, but I know the expression on her face. Bared teeth, eyes on fire, brows furrowed like she's trying to glare a hole through concrete. "If this turns into a 'oh, woe is Amy' rant I'm going to throw you over the edge."

"It's not," I assure her. "Just thinking and talking and making an offer." I take a deep breath, then exhale.

"I don't think I can have Taylor Hebert and Amy at the same time," I say quietly.

Another pause, the silence filled by the distant sound of eating and conversation from the other diners.

"You want to be public. I want you to be happy. Taylor Hebert prevents both," I say. "Maybe that doesn't blow up our relationship tomorrow. Or a day later. Or a lot of days later. But I don't want to play the odds like this. Not with you." I lean forward and take her hand, eyes still downcast.

"I abandon Taylor. I unmask here and now, we have a romantic dinner, and I learn how to cope. I keep Taylor. We eat, go home, and take a break. Maybe not forever, but for long enough to get some space. To think, to figure out what makes sense." I bring my other hand up and clasp them around hers, head bowed and hands up, a prayer. "I don't know what I want more. I don't know what you want more. Please," I whisper.

We sit there in silence for a long time. Long enough for other patrons to come and go, long enough for the sun to go down, for heating torches to be lit. The waiter is probably sweating bullets, trying to figure out the best way to approach a pair of capes that could sink his restaurant's reputation with a word, wondering when he can ask us to leave.

I don't care.

Eventually, Amy pulls her hand out of mine and lifts my face with it.

And she gives her answer.


	6. Chapter 6

"Rose, it's been three fuckin' weeks. You gotta get out and do something."

"No I don't, Maudlin."

"Let me rephrase that: fuckin' do something, or else I start telling people to visit and kick your ass in gear. And you won't like who I start with."

"You wouldn't."

"When do I bluff?"

* * *

I didn't have to come to the meeting in costume. I could've driven here, then stepped into a restroom and armored up. That would've taken far more effort though. I would've had to pack a bag of clothes, sit in traffic, tell Amy that I needed the car, deal with her inevitable attempt at small talk, try to navigate my way through it without showing _just how much her refusal still hurts_...

No, not worth it.

I look at my watch and sigh. No one accosted me as I walked through the apartment complex. Part of that is probably the numerous requests I've made in public for people not to approach me. Part of that is probably the thorns studding my armor. Say what you will about commitment to theme, walking around covered in spikes is an excellent way to convince people to leave you alone. Now I'm alone in the the third floor hallway, waiting for enough time to pass to make me "early" instead of "awkwardly early."

I sigh again.

This is stupid.

I knock three times. There's a muffled noise behind the door and I hear footsteps. They stop, the locks on the door slip and click, and the door cracks open. A hazel eyes peeks out, the color made lighter by the heavy bag underneath it. The rest of the person is hidden by the door, a sturdy length of chain keeping it from opening further.

I settle myself and look down at the eye. Business time. "I'm here for the portrait-"

"Oh! You're White Rose! Right, I totally remember that," she interrupts, closing the door again. A chain rattles, then the door opens all the way. "I'm ready if you are!" she says, putting on a smile and motioning into the room. "I mean, I hope you are, 'cause I'm pretty ready!"

As I enter I take in the artist. She's short. That's the dominant first impression. I'm tall for a girl, taller in costume, and she decidedly is not, at least a head and a half smaller than me with long, straight, extremely dark brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. She's dressed casually, just basketball shorts and a tank top with a black cargo vest of some sort left open over her chest. She's taking me in as well, scanning me with a critical eye I recognize from half a dozen different artists. It's the look of someone sizing up a piece of work and deciding what to do with it.

After the moment of silence she gently bops her head with the heel of her hand. "Where're my manners? I'm basically set-up, but there are a few things I still gotta do. So, like, raid the fridge while I get the rest of the lights up and running." She motions towards a metal obelisk in the back of the studio, then heads towards a cleared-out area, empty save for an easel, a stool, and a pair of lamps. "I'm Seffai, by the way. Seff for short," she adds, throwing a smile over her shoulder. "It's nice to meet you."

"You too," I say quietly, a little startled by the whirlwind of interaction that just happened. As she starts messing with a lamp, flicking it on and off in bursts of harsh illumination, I shake myself out of my stupor. Artists are weird. This isn't news. I head over to the kitchen, taking a route around the empty area, carefully stepping over some discarded game controllers and a pair of painter overalls. I'm not hungry, but I figure it's probably the best place to wait for her to finish her preparations.

As I walk, I observe the flat. People tend to leave imprints of themselves when they live in the same place for a significant period of time, and it looks like Seffai is no different. The garbage can is filled with take-out boxes and paper bags bearing the logos of half a dozen restaurant chains, and the fridge is packed with finger-foods, stuff that stays good through its first bout in the cold. There are a few framed photos on the walls of untamed forests and evening prairies. A nature lover, then, but not one who wants to travel out to the harshest climes.

I lean against a counter and compare the two halves of the apartment. On the one hand, there's the workplace, clearly defined by the almost barren type of order imposed. On the other hand is the "recreation" area, with a heavy-duty backpack and several different pairs of boots lined up against the wall, cluttered in a way that makes it feel lived-in, like well broken shoes or old shirts.

Music starts rolling out from a pair of speakers, startling me. I turn towards Seffai, who has cocked her head in manner that makes me think of prairie foxes, alert and focused on the angle of another lamp, the light softened by a white lamp shade, and after a few measures of music she nods to herself.

"Yeah, that's the last of the last-minute stuff," she says, settling her hands on her hips. She walks over to the easel, a single finger visible over her shoulder as she beckons me towards her. "Hop up on the chair over there and we can get started with the first-draft sketches. Sound good?" she asks, stepping up onto a heavily-modified barstool and kicking the base, sending her spinning. "Wheeeeeee!"

I blink.

Then I accept the silliness for what it is and slowly plod to the center of light. The stool is tall enough that I don't have to bend my knees too much to sit on it, and after a moment I find a position that lets me sit comfortably. I begin to settle my hands in my lap, then remember I have an audience.

"Is there any pose in particular I should be aiming for?" I ask, turning towards Seffai. She's barely visible, the easel loaded with thin-looking paper and set at a slight angle that allows her to see me while also covering up most of her body. She shakes her head and smiles.

"Nah, you do you. Just stay still for a bit, I'm going to be cranking out some quick sketches so I have an idea about what to commit to later. Also, have I mentioned that I really, really appreciate you picking me? Like, really, really appreciate it?" I wave a hand dismissively.

"It's fine," I say, settling back into the chair. "Just draw."

It takes a while for Seffai to get going. First she has to look for pencils, for sharpeners, for extra tape, and slowly mess up the previously carefully-organized room in the search for exactly the right eraser. She finally starts the process of getting settled after that, only to realize that the easel is at the wrong height for someone my size. That takes another ten minutes to fix, and she keeps up a constant chatter throughout, filled with self-deprecating humor and bubbly nervousness. It trails off as she gets into the zone, the idle chatter fading in favor of the _skritch skritch skritch_ of pencil on paper and the occasional request to change poses.

Then an air raid siren goes off.

"Eeep!" Seffai says, looking down and scraping at her pockets even as I suppress the urge to jump off the stool and _do something violent_. "Sorry about that, it's my food alarm, there to make sure I, y'know, eat." She checks her phone and nods. "Yeah, you've been sitting still for a while. Want to get lunch?" she asks, looking pleadingly at me. I slowly stretch out my arms, feeling the muscles creak from several hours of disuse.

"That... would be nice," I reply, nodding once.

"Sweet!" Seffai says, hopping off the chair and thumbing through her phone. "So, I usually get take-out and just wolf it down as fast as possible. That cool with you? I've got a few Mexican and Indian places on speed dial, but if you're open to it there's this Hawaiian place that I haven't ordered from in a while."

"Hawaiian?" I ask, standing up and looking around, trying to figure out what to do next. During my photo shoot with Felix things went fast enough that I didn't have to think about what to do with my body during down time, but now I feel adrift, lost in a space not my own.

"Yeah," Seffai says, oblivious to my discomfort as she stares at her phone screen and taps away at it. "Kalua pork with cabbage, rice and macaroni, it's really good. I mean, not as good as it is in Hawaii, but for that you'd need to bury it in leaves then slow roast it for hours, which is kind of tricky to do in Boston. There's also basically chicken strips with macaroni, which is a nice intro for people who haven't had Hawaiian before. Like, if you're super-not okay with it we can do something else," she assures me, looking up with a nervous smile. "This's about you," she adds, a wavering note of hope in her voice.

I shrug noncommittally. "What's on the menu?"

* * *

"Are you okay?" Seffai asks as we wait for food, sipping tea and sitting across from one another at the island in the kitchen. I look up from my tea.

"Why wouldn't I be?" I ask, rubbing my mug with my thumb, concealing my nervousness in small motions behind uncaring bone. Seffai shrugs and puts down her own cup.

"You seem a little... not okay," she says, picking her words carefully as she avoids my gaze. "I mean, you're kinda way-too-quiet compared to the other models I work with, and not in a "I'm super focused" way. More like in a "cry-for-help" way." She laces her fingers together and stares at the table, twiddling her thumbs. "I mean, I could totally be reading this wrong, but you're not really all here, are you?"

I glare at the top of Seffai's head, a shard of glass-clear anger cutting through the haze of my tar-thick self-pity. Who does this two-bit sketcher think she is, trying to psychoanalyze someone she's known for all of fifteen minutes?

"I'm perfectly fine," I say crisply, trying to end the conversation. Seffai doesn't seem to want to though. She shakes her head, strands of hair drifting loose to hang down in front of a pensive expression.

"You're really not. See, normally when I'm drawing people, there's some back-and-forth, a little chit-chat, some jokes, you know. Small talk. You didn't really do any of that." She takes a deep breath, then looks up at me. "Maybe you're just kind of a jerk. Maybe you just don't like me. That'd hurt, but I could kind of get it. But if you were a jerk then Felix wouldn't have said such good things about you. If you didn't like me you would've been a little more angry when I tried to get you to talk to me." I hold myself still, hold in the shards of bone that want to escape, that want to _solve this problem the simple way_ , that want to do something stupid because _I can't handle the truth_. "So, yeah. I'm kinda just here, a person to talk to, but if you want to talk you're probably not going to see me again. If you want to spill, I promise to keep my mouth shut afterwards. Like, I don't think I can actually offer much advice, but I want my models to be happy, y'know?" She ends on a sad little smile.

I feel my ribs flex, coming so close to breaking the promise I made so many years ago, the one that still matters _and I have to keep telling myself that, just because she's gone but not gone and it still hurts like being cut open and burned and it never heals_ -

"How do you deal with losing someone you love?" I ask, the feather-light whispers nearly drowned out by the sound of breaking ceramic. My mug shatters as I lose control of my bones, the pressure of my grasp scattering tea and ceramic across the countertop _but I'm too_ ** _hurt_** _to care_ , the words scraping me raw from the inside out. Jagged blades burst from my armor, destroying the chair I'm on and replacing it with rapidly-thickening tendrils, the lower half closer to iron cables than legs. "How do you fuck up the best part of your life using logic and reason and _know_ it's the right thing to do, no matter which way the blade falls, and when the worst happens you're still completely unprepared and you still have to see her every day, knowing that it's your fault, _your goddamn fault_ , and you see her laughing, smiling, and there's that tiny bit of melancholy that makes you think that there could be a spark left but that would defeat the whole reason for asking the question and she's moved on so _what's the fucking point!?_ " I finish shouting at least five feet off the ground surrounded by bramble and thorns and shattered spikes that can only convey a _fraction_ of my self-loathing.

Then I look down.

Seffai is in full-on deer-in-the-headlights mode, looking up at me in abject terror with wide eyes and a slightly open mouth. Slowly, lest I scare her into running, I pull back in the bone. First the thorned branches around my shoulders and arms. Then the ragged-looking blades, curled and angry, sprouting from nearly every possible surface of my armor. Then the limbs holding me up halfway to the ceiling, which lowers me until I'm merely standing across from her, shoulders slumped and so very, very tired.

"I'm sorry," I say, staring at my feet. "You're not a part of this." Why do I fuck _everything_ up? "I'll leave, send a check for the damages." I left my room for the first time in at least a week and what do I do? Scare an artist half to death, dump my problems on them, and for what? Maybe I should just-

"Nah," Seffai says, voice quiet. "I kinda get that."

The two of us stand there in silence for a moment, lost in our own thoughts.

Then the doorbell rings.

"I'll get it," Seffai says, face still subdued but voice back at a normal volume. "We can talk over a meal."

* * *

When I'm about halfway through my plate of chicken, Seffai starts talking.

"I'm ace," she says as she puts down her fork, once more avoiding eye contact. "A few years back, one of my friends asked me out, and I said yes." A silence stretches out, but I don't say anything.

"He's a good guy. A good friend." She's speaking slowly, carefully, and the shift from her loose and carefree diction is jarring. "I liked going out with him, but I didn't like kissing him. Not even a little. I didn't want to think about sex." She inhales, then exhales, more sad than anything else. "We were close. Really close. He wanted something physical, though. I couldn't, can't, do that," she says, a note of moroseness creeping into her voice. "So I broke it off. I did it to salvage what was left of our friendship and so he could find a girl who could make him happy."

We eat in silence for a moment. I feel the urge to say something. Anything.

"You seem to have managed pretty well," I try. Seffai barks a cold, hard laugh.

"It hurt more than anything else," she says darkly. "Like fucking knives made of all my worst memories right to the heart for a solid week. It didn't get better, either." She picks up a fork and stabs at her pork far more aggressively than necessary, again and again and again, filling the tines to the end with meat and cabbage. "It's been years, and I even now I feel it, a little poke right where it hurts. We're still friends," she adds, glaring at her food like it owes her money. "We still hang out, still help each other out in bad times." She sniffles a little, bites into the mass of food on the end of her fork, and after a few angry chews swallows it down. "And it's because I knew when to draw the line and say 'I'm sorry.'"

I space out for a moment after she says those words.

"You okay there?" I blink and come back to the world. Seffai is looking across the table, concern in her eyes.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" I deflect. "You just poured your heart and soul out to a cape that destroyed a chair in a fit of pique."

"Chairs can be replaced," Seffai says, waving her hand dismissively. "People are a bit harder." I chuckle a little at the comment, tired and quiet. "So, are you okay?" she asks, looking at me over an empty plate. I swallow the lump of food in my throat and look down at what remains, appetite gone.

"No," I say. "I'm really not."

* * *

The next four hours pass in a blur.

We finish our meal and head back to the studio half of the apartment. Seffai asks questions, and I answer them. Questions about what hurts the most, about what Amy was like, about why it ended. I give Seffai as much as I can, telling her about waking up without anyone to hold, about the just-us gallows humor that made people ask if the two of us needed to see a psychiatrist, about the toe-curling, bed-breaking, eye-rolling sex that I still find myself aching for. I tell her about how she could make me smile, pull me out of self-depressive spirals, and how she had the most adorable sneeze in the world.

I tell Seffai that I couldn't have had her without sacrificing far too much. That I had to choose between what I _probably_ needed and what I _wanted_ to be able to make it work.

Throughout it all she doesn't stop drawing, throwing in pose requests between comments, some gently mocking, some quietly affirming. We play with bone, abandoning the stool in favor of Greek pillars, of long roots lifting me off the ground, of suspending myself from the rafters with strands so thin it looks like I'm floating. We experiment with flower arrangements, with framing, with bouquets I hold, with bouquets scattered around carelessly. By the time we're done I must have spent more time sculpting than an average day at .e, and I feel lighter for it.

Another alarm goes off. This time I don't jump.

"There's the next food time," Seffai says, dropping her pencil and once more scrabbling for her phone. "Also, wow we spent a lot of time on this stuff. I think the initial agreement was for, like, half of what we ended up doing?" she says, face confused before it drops into panic. "Oh shit, am I going to get billed for this?" she whispers. I laugh, pulling back in the pine tree of bone I had been leaning against and shake my head.

"If Maudlin tries to bill you for any of this, tell me. I'll set him straight," I assure her. "I should be paying you." A thoughtful look comes across Seffai's face.

"Could I get my compensation in studio time?" she asks. "Like, this is _really cool_ ," she explains, slipping off her stool and pulling the easel around to show off a rather impressionistic, dream-like interpretation of one of my poses. "I'd really, really like to do more."

"Sure," I say, smiling behind my mask. "This... this was nice." I look around the room, now given context by the woman who lives in it. The hiking gear comes with stories of where it's been, the furniture with the precise location of the garage or moving sales they came from, of who's crashed on them after a long night of geeking out over pencils and paper. "Thank you for letting me into your home," I say warmly, bowing slightly. Seffai pshaws.

"Please, thank you for coming," she says dismissively, walking to the freezer. "Big-City cape visiting a small-town artist? Seems like the start of some sort of weird drama," she comments as she opens it up and pulls out a paper box, arching an eyebrow at me over her shoulder. "Mochi before you go?" she asks. "I wanna eat these with someone so I don't feel like as much of a pig when I snarf half the box." I laugh again.

"I would love to."

* * *

"So how was it?"

"Fun."

"Fun? _Fun_? Did I just hear my sad-sack partner describe something as "fun" for the first time in weeks? Should I bring someone in here to check for Master influence? Are you even the real Rose?"

"Employer, yes, no, and yes. Don't make me shave and fire you."

"I give, I give. Now that you've rediscovered your sense of humor, want to hit up a few pubs? Well, one pub. New little spot I'm opening up, cape-only. Gonna be bringin' some other indies there to break her in, maybe a few of the nicer white hats too. Whaddya say?"

"Sure. Just let me change into something more comfortable."


	7. Chapter 7

I sigh silently behind my mask, rolling my wrist as yet another teenaged girl comes forward, blushing and bubbly in equal measures. Was setting a time and place for signing autographs a good idea? Yes. It keeps people from harassing me on the street, shows I'm a reasonable person, and lets me make sure my hours of public time are low enough that I don't burn out on caping.

That doesn't make it any less tedious though.

I write out 'White Rose' in the same painstakingly-clean way Amy taught me, loopy enough to be 'fancy' but also legible to people who didn't learn cursive in high school. She also taught me how to personalize the message, add that little bit of uniqueness that made them immune to being ebay'd through a combination of proper nouns and sentimental value. Those lessons would eventually devolve into flirting, which led to kissing, which sometimes led to-

I cut off the thought and sign another autograph.

It's been a few months since we broke up, and things are better. We can eat at the same table, make small talk in groups with the other person in them, and generally coexist without sending each other into a depressive funk. That doesn't mean I still don't think of her when the itch finally gets too much to bear, when the loneliness gets so bad that I need to call Dave and just blabber until I feel less like garbage. It doesn't mean that the two of us can hold a conversation alone.

Maybe one day.

It's the door chiming open accompanied by the _clink_ of metal on metal, too much to be anything a civvie might wear, that tips me off to my new parahuman visitor. I cast my gaze towards the entrance, subtly preparing myself to fight. None of the locals bother me much anymore, but the Teeth have yet to die out, and out-of-towners have historically been stupid enough to think they can bully me into-

The world stops as I watch Caress walk down the main aisle.

She has a new eye. The right one is still green, still terrifyingly expressive, but the left one looks like it's made out of some kind of crystal, the iris pink as cherry blossoms and the rest of it the same emerald shade as her other iris, both very clearly visible now that she's ditched the veil. The chains around her are finer now, with a wider variety of weapons at the ends of them, everything from hooks to blades to axe heads. It's probably a custom job, made of some dark metal I can't place off the top of my head, and I make a mental note to try and figure out who her supplier is.

"Like the view?" Caress asks, and I can hear the smirk before I see it, my eyes snapping up to meet hers.

"I've seen better," I snap back automatically, sass trained into me by Amy coming to the forefront of my mind. Instead of a veil, she has chains tracing around her face like a balaclava, so close to her skin that I imagine she has to be bald underneath it. "What brings you here?" I ask, trying to buy time. A civil conversation with a known villain is not yet the most bizzare thing that has happened to me in my shop, but it's heading in that direction with increasing speed.

"Payment for services rendered," she says airily. "Due about six years and two months ago, but who's counting?" She laughs, throwing her head back and letting loose great peals of laughter, mirthful and clear as silver bells. I think about the date, then wince behind my mask. Leviathan. Right. "Now, mind cutting your public hour short?" she asks, casting a glance at a nearby fan who cowers under the brief gaze of steel. "I'm always down for a brawl with the local white hats, but I don't think your shop could take it."

I weigh my options carefully, thinking about the impact of taking a walk with a known villain. Of _not_ going on the walk with a known villain who claimed that I owed her something. I flick my eyes to the side and take in the reaction of the crowd. Shock, mostly, but a few of the more adaptable people are already pulling out phones.

Then I sigh, put the public out of my mind, and ask myself what I want to do.

"Let's get out of here," I say, standing up and pulling my throne back into my armor. Caress doesn't so much as blink, the mischievous smile on her face never shifting. I make eye contact with Alyssa and make a subtle motion with one hand. Get everyone out, shut down the store, and brace for the PR event afterward. Low priority, make sure everyone can buy what they want, but don't let in new customers. She nods once and promptly starts calling orders to sales people and shepherding various shoppers to the cashier stations as Caress and I exit .e.

"Let's get somewhere high and quiet," Caress says, chain hissing against chain as she lifts herself off the ground. "Unless you have a better place to talk?" she asks, challenging, tilting her chin slightly as she drifts up into the air, inches of scarred olive skin bared by the unraveling metal.

"As a matter of fact, I do," I say, savoring the trace of surprise I catch in her expression. I tilt my head down the street. "There's a bar that's cape exclusive on the outskirts of town. It's largely independents and heroes only, but I can vouch for you. If you promise to be on your best behavior," I add, turning away from her and stilting up. After a moment I hear clicking behind me, like a jar of pennies being upended on the sidewalk, and soon enough she's beside me.

We see two other capes as we approach the White Flag. The first one is Vicky, green robes and blonde hair unmistakable even at distance. I grow out a limb of bone and wave her off, forming a circle with it before pulling it back in, a prearranged sign that means 'peace'. She flies in a loop, signaling reception, then darts away. Shortly thereafter a vaguely-red figure starts hopping rooftops with us, maintaining a constant distance while bounding between buildings.

"You've got it in with the local Protectorate, then?" Caress asks, shouting to be heard over the wind.

I shrug as we launch ourselves into space, only barely clearing the street below us. "I pay taxes, don't make trouble, and show up to Endbringer fights. Since you and I aren't trying to kill one another, they're not about to start anything that might endanger civilians." Rule one is stay alive. Rule two is keep your team alive. Rule three is keep the bystanders alive. Only after that do you start thinking about taking down the villain.

"You still fight those things?" Caress asks, voice dropping as we slow down. "After what happened last time?"

I nod as we descend to street level, the Protectorate cape closing the distance between us in great leaps that speak of super strength without an actual Mover power. "My power works well with Isidis," I explain, managing to speak the name without wincing, even internally. "I grind up a regenerator, she heals people. In the aftermath when I'm not needed, I move onto Search and Rescue." That's probably because Isidis has never been anything but professional, just as Rose has been nothing but courteous.

Those two know their limits.

"Metal," Caress deadpans. "I just throw around cop cars."

I look at her, mask firmly neutral. She smiles back at me, all straight teeth and sharp-edged joy. For a long moment, we stare at each other.

I turn away first. "Let's just have a drink and talk," I say, a note of exhaustion creeping into my voice. "Get this over with." Day's over anyway, and once this is done I'm looking forward to a nice, long, bath.

"Don't have to make it sound like a chore," Caress mutters and I feel a pang of guilt as she starts walking towards the stairs, a neon sign pointing down them proclaiming "drinks for capes" in lemonade pink. I could've phrased that better.

The White Flag is a squat, ugly building, an old apartment that Maudlin bought for possessing two key features: a terrible location and a lot of space. The area immediately around the bar is so low income that the local gangs don't bother trying to hold it, and reducing a few square blocks to rubble would probably only increase the local property values, what with all the free demolition work. The bar itself takes up the entire lower floor, and any brawl of note would almost certainly knock over a load bearing wall and kill every non-Brute on the premises. One of the many ways Maudlin makes a multi-cape gathering something other than a fight to the death.

"No bouncer?" Caress asks as we descend the steps to the entrance of the bar.

I shake my head, twisting the knob. It turns. Good. It would've been embarrassing to invite Caress out to a closed bar. "It's where the neutral and good capes go to drink. Most of them keep quiet about its exact location, and anyone who tries to break in will either see no one of note or half a dozen capes nominally on the side of the law."

"I like those odds," Caress says, cackling as she steps in behind me. I reach back a tendril to close the door and feel an unexpected resistance. I look back. A chain of black metal is twined around the knob already attempting to drag the door shut. I look at Caress, who raises an eyebrow. I pull the bone back in, looking away from her and into the bar.

Capes break things. It's a fact of life, like taxes or lying to friends, and Maudlin furnished the bar with that in mind. The furniture is cheap and pleasant, comfort prioritized over style and conformity, all of it ultimately replaceable. That means a lot of stuff scavenged from moving sales, from Craigslist, from whatever source Maudlin could get. Six tables, each large enough to hold six people, and three stools at the bar, itself a blocky metal thing covered in thick plastic, the alcohol locked behind it in glass cabinets. There's a fireplace on one side of the room, with two couches and a loveseat facing the single coffee table in front of it.

Argus is taking chairs down from tables, a few eyes on his back focused on me, a few narrowed at Caress, and a few more rolling around in their sockets and looking at nothing in particular. He straightens up and turns around, the single eye on his forehead blinking twice as it looks at me, then at Caress. He nods once, then goes back to his task, the expanse of skin where his nose and mouth should be as unchanging as ever

"He's the bartender?" Caress asks, walking over to the bar and settling down on a stool of spun chains, the much-abused floor receiving three more small cuts as the blades stab into the ground. "Not sure I trust a guy without a mouth to make me drinks," she adds, shooting a vicious smile at Argus. He doesn't visably react.

"He can see most Strangers and is partially immune to Master influences," I explain, forming my own chair. "Makes getting payment easier. Maudlin does an outreach program for Case 53's, found Argus, and offered him a job." The click of wood on wood stops, and I pause as Argus pads around behind us. He flips up the divider, walks behind the bar, then flips it down. He reaches under the bar, pulls out a small legal pad and pen, scribbles something on it, then passes it to Caress.

 _I work as a PI in the off season_. _Pays quite well_.

"Didn't ask for your life story, Eyeballs," Cares replies, smile moving to something almost respectful. "You got Heineken?" she asks. Argus looks to me, jerking a thumb at Caress with a questioning look in his eyes.

"My tab," I say, waving dismissively. "The usual." The fact that I have a usual at a bar is a fact of no small concern to me, but it's been less of an issue lately. Certainly it's been less of an issue than when I started going out drinking with Maudlin, and as of now I would almost qualify it as a simple habit, rather than a problem.

Argus leaves us for a moment, pulling a pair of keys out of his belt and unlocking the cabinets above him, pulling bottles and glasses down. While he does that, I lean back in my chair and make eye contact with Caress.

"Why are you here?" I ask quietly.

Caress's smile transitions into a smirk. "You promised me compensation. Now, I'm willing to be pretty generous with the interest-"

"No," I say, shaking my head. "You don't travel cross country, away from your territory, away from your allies and resources, because you want some art." At least, I wouldn't. "If you're on the run, looking for a place to hole up, I'm not going to-"

"It's not 'cause I'm fucking running," Caress says harshly, metal scraping against metal as she clenches her fists, easy demeanor turning into a glare. "I don't fucking run."

I decide not to bring up Endbringers. Instead I look at her, waiting, expecting. She doesn't back down, face twisted in anger.

"I don't need anything from you," she says, hands unmoving. "I didn't come here for help, for payment, for- fuck," she finishes, finally breaking the staring contest and looking to the side, then back to me, a softness in her gaze I don't recognize. "I didn't come her for a fight," she says quietly. "Didn't want things to get heated."

"So you walked into my store, in full view of the public, and ask me to pay back an unspecified debt?" I ask dryly.

Caress shrugs, smile slowly returning. "I could have sent an email, but if you respond to requests for hookups over the internet I'm going to have to ask you to get tested, " she answers, flashing some tooth as the smile momentarily widens. "Next time I'll roll up with my entourage."

"Big word," I shoot back, nodding to Argus as he brings me my drink. "Did you look it up before you came to Boston?" The AMF is not a drink I can order in front of anyone who knows what it is, but I've grown to like them too much to let them go without a fight.

Caress laughs at that, shaking her head as Argus gently places a green bottle against the countertop, then bring his fist down, send the metal cap flying off. "Nah. Went back to school, got my degree, looking at a masters in chemical engineering."

"Really?" I ask, looking at Caress in a new light.

"Psh, no," she replies, shaking her head and tilting the bottle at Argus in gratitude. "One of the capes working under me is a lit freak, and some of it's been rubbing off on me," she explains. "Fucker can tell you all about the old white guys that wrote all the plays and stuff, but needs someone watching over him twenty-four seven to make sure he eats." She promptly starts chugging the beer, bottle slowly climbing to vertical, Adam's apple bobbing in time with her gulps. I stare stock still as she finishes it all in one go and drops the bottle on the table. "Another!" she says, grinning at Argus, who again turns to me.

"If you're just here for the drinks, I'm cutting you off after two," I say evenly as I nod to Argus, sipping at my own and savoring the bite of the alcohol. Argus reaches under the bar, pulls out a second bottle, and places it in front of Caress. "Now please, why?" I ask, more quietly. I still can't think of a plausible reason for her to be here, and I don't want to have to fight her over something that can be avoided. Best to just rip off the bandaid.

"Well, there goes that plan," Caress mutters, grabbing the drink and placing a single finger on the cap. It peels off with a slight cry of rending metal, then falls away. "Can we get some privacy?" she asks, looking at Argus with a toothy grin. "We need a minute." He sizes her up, then shrugs, turning around and walking through a small door. Once he's gone, Caress's smile drops away. I wait for her to begin.

And wait.

And wait.

Caress slowly sips at her beer, silent, until the alcohol is gone. Then she growls and throws the bottle at a trash can, nearly tipping it over as glass rattles against glass. "Fuck, here it goes," she mutters. Then she turns to look at me.

"You have any idea how fucking lonely being a villain is?" she asks, words hot with rage and fury. "You can't talk with the henches because they're too weak to matter, can't talk with your capes because they can't ever see the facade crack, and you can't talk with other villains because they're trying to kill you half the time. Can't go out with a civvie because I'm not stupid enough to tie myself to someone who fundamentally doesn't _get it_ , and the next person to recommend me a therapist is going to get their skin peeled off," she growls, chains writhing across her face.

"You wanted to talk?" I ask incredulously.

Caress groans, dropping her head to the bartop. "No, I'm dancing around it, like I always fucking do. Like I did at Leviathan, like I did when I tried to explain to my goons why I was just chilling in Lincoln Park once a week for three months straight, like a whole lot of shit," she says, words muffled by the plastic. "I can't say this shit straight out because that's not me. I really, really fucking wish I could just go out and talk about shit but I can't. I avoid talking about it, stop thinking about it, and try to pretend like it doesn't exist but I fucking crave it like nothing else." There's a pain in her words, like fishhooks left broken in a bird, and I find myself moving closer to her, reaching out a hand. "I can't fucking say it, but I can point at shadows, at outlines, glance at it sideways and pray that someone gets it. That's all I can fucking do, because I can't look at the root cause without falling into a fucking _wreck_ ," she says, hissing out the last word. "Please, please tell me you get it, Rose," she says, quieter, somewhere between furious, hopeful, and so sad that it's its own color of misery, still hunched over, a geist of chains left staring at the bar top.

Slowly, oh so slowly, I let my hand settle on her shoulder. I think back to the conversation in the rain, to the tone of her voice. I think about Amy, even a little bit about Ames, and I kind of see it. Not the same shape, not the same way, but a sort of mirage that lasts for exactly long enough for me to understand.

"You kind of picked a bad time," I say quietly.

Caress snorts, almost a hiccup. "There's a good fucking time for this? I just ran here before I bitched out and started paying professional escorts." I laugh at that, the statement too sudden to guard against. That prompts Caress to laugh as well, a cascading series of nervous reactions that leave us both breathless, supported only by our powers and one another.

Slowly, I sit back up. Caress gets back up too, standing tall. She's only a little shorter than I am, probably a hair taller without heels.

We don't talk for a while.

"This was really fucking creepy," she says eventually, turning away from the bar. "Just wanted to get this off my chest."

"It was," I say, watching her head for the door. "But I still owe you those flowers."

She pauses, then looks back, a carefully guarded smile on her face. "What do you mean by that?" she asks, teasing, challenging. I shake my head.

"I mean exactly what I said. I still owe you flowers," I affirm, downing the rest of the blue liquor mix. "I'll make you any bouquet you want. Just one, and you have to be able to carry it on your own." I leave my glass on the bar and walk over towards her, shrinking just enough to be exactly eye level with her. "Anything more would go beyond the bounds of what I owe you. It would mean starting an official something. That's not something I can do with a villain." I stop, bare inches from her face. "I'm not going to stop being me, anymore than you're going to stop being you," I say quietly. "I'm sorry."

Caress looks at me for a long time, a small smile still in place.

Then she shakes her head and turns around again, chains rustling freely against one another like a hundred wind chimes all at once.

"I'll think about it," she says, opening the door outside. "Anyway, give me a heads up the next time you're in Chicago. I'll pick up the bouquet then, alright?" Her voice is just as upbeat as ever, and I can see new energy in her limbs, a vitality that wasn't there a few minutes ago.

I nod, even though she can't see it. "I'll do that," I whisper as she walks out the door, disappearing in a swirl of chains.


End file.
